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an artist in Crime 

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" One may safely say that it ranks with the best 
detective novels yet published in this country." 
Boston Times. 

" An Artist in Crime is the best detective story 
which has been published in several years." New 
Haven Palladium. 

a Conflict of Evidence 


" This particular book is the best of its kind, and 
just what its title sets forth. . . . It is a 
masterpiece of consistent theory and will bear 
reading any time and any place." Omaha Excelsior, 

a /IfcoOern 

I&MO, PAPER, 50 CTS. ; CLOTH, fl.OO 









Sin .Smchcibockcr |)rrss 




Entered at Stationers Hall, London 

Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by 

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VIII. FOR THE DEFENCE . . . . .120 





I. ONE NIGHT ...... 183 

II. A FRIEND IN NEED ..... 205 


V. A FACE FROM THE PAST . . . .257 

VI. AGNES DUDLEY . . . . . .272 




X. THE BETROTHAL ..... 347 




XIV. SANATOXINE . . . . . . 407 





EARLY one morning, in the spring of eighteen hundred 
and seventy-three, two young lawyers were seated in 
their private office. The firm name, painted in gilt let 
ters upon the glass of the door, was DUDLEY & BLISS. 
Mortimer Dudley was the senior member, though notj 

over thirty years old. Robert Bliss was two years 1 


Mr. Dudley was sorting some papers and deftly tying 
them into bundles with red tape. Why lawyers will per 
sist in using tape of a sanguine color is an unsolvable 
mystery to me, unless it may be that they are loath to dis 
turb the many old adages in which the significant couplet 
of words appears. However that may be, Mr. Dudley 
paused in his occupation, attracted by an exclamation 
from his partner, who had been reading a morning paper. 

" What is it, Robert ? " asked Mr, Dudley, 


" Oh ! Only another sensational murder case, destined, 
I imagine, to add more lustre to the name of some law 
yer who does n t need it. Mortimer, I wonder when our 
turn will come. Here we have been in these rooms for 
three months, and not a criminal case has come to us 

" Don t be impatient, Robert. We must not give up 
hope. Look at Munson. He was in the same class with 
us at college, and we all considered him a dunce. By 
accident he was engaged to defend that fellow who was 
accused of poisoning his landlady. Munson actually 
studied chemistry in order to defend the case. His 
cross-examination of the prosecution s experts made 
him famous. Who knows ! We may get an opportunity 
like that some day." 

" Some day ! Yes, some day ! I believe there is a 
song that begins that way. I always detested it. I do 
not like that word some day. It s so beastly indefinite. 
I prefer to-day or even to-morrow. But let me read 
to you the account of this case. It is about that young 
woman who died so mysteriously, up in the boarding- 
house on West Twenty-sixth Street." 

" I don t know anything about it, Robert. I have n t 
read the papers for three days. Tell me the main facts." 

"Well, it is really a very curious story. It seems there 
was a young girl, twenty or thereabouts, living in town 
temporarily, whilst she studied music. Her name was 
Mabel Sloane. She is described as pretty, though that 
is a detail that the reporters always add. But, pretty or 


ugly, she died last Sunday morning, under rather pecul 
iar circumstances. The doctors differed as to the cause 
of death." 

" Why, there is nothing odd about that, is there ? " 
Mr. Dudley smiled at his own wit. " Doctors disagree 
and the patient dies. That is the old adage. You have 
only reversed it. Your patient died, and the doctors 
then disagreed. Where s the odds ? " 

"The odds amount to this, Mortimer. One doctor 
signed a certificate of death, naming diphtheria as the 
cause. The other physician reported to the Board of 
Health that there were suspicious circumstances which 
led him to think that the woman might have died from 

" Poison? This is interesting." 

" The more you hear, the more you will think so. In 
yesterday s papers it was announced that the Coroner 
had taken up the case, and that an autopsy would be 

" Does this morning s paper give the result of the post 
mortem ? " 

"Yes. Listen! The autopsy upon the body of Mabel 
Sloane, the beautiful young musician you see they 
still harp on the beautiful young musician, whose 
mysterious death was reported yesterday, shows conclu 
sively that the girl was poisoned. The doctors claim to 
have found morphine enough to kill three men. Thus 
the caution of Dr. Meredith, in notifying the Health 
Board of his suspicions, is to be commended. It is but 


just to say, however, that the doctors who made the post 
mortem, entirely exonerate Dr. Fisher, the physician 
who certified that the death was caused by diphtheria, 
for they claim, curiously enough, that the woman would 
undoubtedly have died of that disease even if the mor 
phine had not been administered. This opens up a most 
interesting set of complications. Why should any one 
poison a person who is about to die a natural death ? It 
might be claimed that the murderer did not know that a 
fatal termination of the disease would ensue. This brings 
us to the most interesting fact, that the one who is sus 
pected by the police is no other than the girl s sweet 
heart, who is himself a physician. Thus it is plain that he 
should have known that the disease would probably prove 
fatal, and under these circumstances it is almost incon 
ceivable that he should have resorted to poison. Never 
theless, the detectives claim that they have incontestible 
evidence of his guilt, although they refuse to reveal what 
their proofs are. However, some facts leaked out yes 
terday which certainly tend to incriminate Dr. Emanuel 
Medjora, the suspected man. In the first place, Dr. 
Medjora has suddenly and completely disappeared. In 
quiry at his office elicited the statement that he has not 
been there since the day before yesterday, which it will 
be remembered was the time when the Coroner first 
came into the case. Dr. Medjora has not been at his 
residence, and none of his friends has seen him. In 
short, if he had been swallowed by an earthquake he 
could not have vanished more swiftly. lie was supposed 


to have been engaged to marry Miss Sloane, and as she 
was a beautiful girl, accomplished, and altogether charm 
ing, it has puzzled all who knew her, to understand why 
he should wish to destroy her. Some light may be 
thrown upon this, however, by the discovery at the 
autopsy, that she has been a mother. What has become 
of the child, or where it was born, is still a part of the 
mystery. Miss Sloane has lived at the Twenty-sixth 
Street house about three months, and as she has always 
been cheerful and happy, the boarders cannot reconcile 
this report of the doctors with what they knew of the 
woman. They claim, with much reason, that if her baby 
had died she should have had moments of despondency 
when her grief would have been noticeable. Or if the 
child were alive, then why did she never allude to it? 
Another significant fact is, that Dr. Medjora has been 
seen driving in the Park, recently, with a handsome 
woman, stylishly dressed, and evidently wealthy, as the 
coachman and footman wore expensive livery. Did the 
Doctor tire of his pretty little musician, and wish to 
marry his rich friend who owns the carriage and horses? 
His disappearance lends color to the theory. There, 
what do you think of that ? " said Mr. Bliss, throwing 
aside the newspaper. 

" What do I think ? " answered his partner. " I think 
that this will be a great case. A chance for young men 
like us to make fame and fortune. If we could only be 
retained by that man 

The door from the outer office opened and young Jack 


Barnes, the assistant, entered and handed Mr. Dudley a 
visiting card. The lawyer looked at it, seemed astonished, 
said " Show the gentleman in," and when Barnes had 
left the office, turned to his partner, handing him the 
card, and, slightly excited, exclaimed : 

" In heaven s name, Robert, look at that ! " 
Mr. Bliss took the card and read the name : 


The two young men looked at each other in silence, 
startled by the coincidence, and wondering whether at 
last Dame Fortune was about to smile upon them. A 
moment later Dr. Medjora entered. 

Dr. Emanuel Medjora was no ordinary personage. 
His commanding stature would attract attention any 
where, and the more he was observed the more he in 
cited curiosity. First as to his nationality. To what clime 
did he owe allegiance by birth ? One could scarcely de 
cide. His name might lead to the conclusion that he 
was Spanish, but save that his skin was swarthy there 
was little to identify him with that type. Perhaps, more 
than anything, he looked like the ideals which have been 
given to us of Othello, though again his color was at 
fault, not being so deep as the Moor s. He wore a black 
beard, close trimmed, and pointed beneath the chin. 
His hair, also jetty, was longer than is usually seen in 
New York, and quite straight, combed back from the 
forehead without a part. The skull was large, the brain 
cavity being remarkably well developed. Any phrenolo- 


gist would have revelled in the task of fingering his 
humps. The physiognomist, also, would have delighted to 
read the character of the man from the expressiveness of 
his features, every one of which evidenced refined and 
cultured intellectuality. The two, summing up their find 
ings, would probably have accredited the Doctor with all 
the virtues and half of the vices that go to make up the 
modern man, not to mention manyof thetalents commonly 
allotted to the rare geniuses of the world. 

But according these scientists the freest scope in their 
examinations, and giving them besides the assistance of 
the palmist, clairvoyant, astrologist, chirographist, and 
all the other modern savants who advertise to read our 
inmost thoughts, for sums varying in proportion to the 
credulity of the applicant, and when all was told, it 
could not be truthfully said that either, or all, had dis 
covered about Dr. Medjora aught save that which he 
may have permitted them to learn. Probably no one 
thoroughly understood Dr. Medjora, except Dr. Med 
jora himself. That he did comprehend himself, appre 
ciating exactly his abilities and his limitations, there 
cannot be a shadow of a doubt. And it was this that 
made hi.n such a master of men, being as he was so 
completely the master of himself. Those who felt 
bound to admit that in his presence they dwindled even 
in their own estimation, attributed it to various causes, 
all erroneous, the true secret being what I have stated. 
Some said that it was a certain magnetic power which he 
exerted through his eyes. The Doctor s eyes certainly 


were remarkable. Deep set in the head, and thus 
hidden by the beautifully arched brows, they seemed to 
lurk in the shadow, and from their point of vantage to 
look out at, and I may say into, the individual confront 
ing him. I remember the almost weird attraction of 
those eyes when I first met him. Being at the time 
interested in an investigation of the phenomena which 
have been attributed to mesmerism, hypnotism, and 
other " isms " which are but different terms for the same 
thing, I could not resist the impulse to ask him whether 
he had ever attempted any such experiments. Evading 
my question, without apparently meaning to shirk a 
reply, he merely smiled and said, " Do you believe in 
that sort of thing ? " Then he passed on and spoke to 
some one else. I relate the incident merely to show the 
manner of the man. But on the point, raised by some, 
that he controlled men by supernatural means, I think 
that we must dismiss that hypothesis as untenable in the 
main. Of course those who believed that he possessed 
some uncanny or mysterious power of the eyes, might be 
influenced by his keen scrutiny, and would probably 
reveal whatever he were endeavoring to extort from 
them. But a true analysis would show that this was 
but an exhibition of their weakness, rather than of his 
strength. Yet, after all, the man was excessively intel 
lectual, and as the eyes have been aptly called the 
" windows of the soul," what more natural than that so 
self-centred and wilful a man should find his lustrous 
orbs a great advantage to him through life ? 


At the moment of his entrance into the private office 
of Messrs. Dudley & Bliss, those two young men had 
partly decided that he was a murderer. At sight of him, 
they both abandoned the conclusion. Thus it will be 
seen that, if brought to the bar of justice, his presence 
might equally affect the jury in his behalf. He held 
his polished silk hat in his gloved hand, and looked 
keenly at each of the lawyers in turn. Then turning 
towards Mr. Dudley he said : 

" You are Mr. Dudley, I believe ? The senior member 
of your firm ? " 

Mr. Bliss was insensibly annoyed, although very fond 
of his partner. Being only two years his junior, he did 
not relish being so easily relegated to the secondary 

" My name is Dudley," replied the elder lawyer, " but 
unless you have met me before, I cannot understand 
how you guessed my identity, as my partner is scarcely 
at all younger than I am." Mr. Dudley understood his 
partner s character very well, and wished to soothe any 
irritation that may have been aroused. Dr. Medjora 
grasped the situation instantly. Turning to Mr. Bliss he 
said with his most fascinating manner : 

" I am sure you are not offended at my ready dis 
crimination as to your respective ages. It is a habit of 
mine to observe closely. But youth is nothing to be 
ashamed of surely, or if so, then I am the lesser light 
here, for T am perhaps even younger than yourself, Mr. 
Bliss, being but twenty-seven." 


"Oh, not at all ! " exclaimed Mr. Bliss, much mollified, 
and telling the conventional lie with the easy grace which 
we all have acquired in this nineteenth century. " You 
were quite right to choose between us. Mr. Dudley is 
my superior 

" In the firm name only, I am sure," interjected the 
Doctor. " Will you shake hands, as a sign that you 
forgive my unintentional rudeness ? But stop. I am 
forgetting. I see that you have just been reading the 
announcement " he pointed to the newspaper lying 
where Mr. Bliss had dropped it on a chair, folded so 
that the glaring head-lines were easily read " that I 
am a murderer ! " He paused a moment and both 
lawyers colored deeply. Before they could speak, the 
Doctor again addressed them. " You have read the 
particulars, and you have decided that I am guilty. Am 
I not right ? " 

" Really, Dr. Medjora, I should hardly say that. You 
see " Mr. Dudley hesitated, and Dr. Medjora inter 
rupted him, speaking sharply : 

" Come ! Tell me the truth ! I want no polite lying. 
Stop ! " Mr. Dudley had started up, angry at the word 
" lying." " I do not intend any insult ; but understand 
me thoroughly. I have come here to consult you in 
your professional capacity. I am prepared to pay you a 
handsome retainer. But before I do so, I must be satis 
fied that you are the sort of men in whose hands I may 
place my life. It is no light thing for a man in my posi 
tion to intrust such an important case to young men who 
have their reputations to earn." 


" If you do not think we are capable, why have you 
come to us ? " asked Mr. Bliss, hotly. 

" You are mistaken. I do think you capable. But 
think is a very indefinite word. I must know before I 
go further. That is why I asked, and why I ask again, 
have you decided, from what you have read of my case, 
that I am guilty ? Upon your answer I will begin to es 
timate your capability to manage my case." 

The two young lawyers looked at each other a mo 
ment, embarrassed, and remained silent. Dr. Medjora 
scrutinized them keenly. Finally, Mr. Dudley decided 
upon his course, and spoke. 

" Dr. Medjora, I will confess to you that before you 
came in, and, as you have guessed, from reading what 
the newspaper says, I had decided that you are guilty. 
But that was not a juridical deduction. That is, it was 
not an opinion adopted after careful weighing of the 
evidence, for, as it is here, it is all on one side. I regret 
now that I should have formed an opinion so rashly, 
even though you were one in whom, at the time, I sup 
posed I would have no interest." 

" Very good, Mr. Dudley," said the Doctor. " I like 
your candor. Of course, it was not the decision of the 
lawyer, but simply that of the citizen affected by his 
morning newspaper. As such, I do not object to your 
having entertained it. But now, speaking as a lawyer, 
and without hearing anything of my defence, tell me 
what value is to be put upon the evidence against me, 
always supposing that the prosecution can bring good 
evidence to sustain their position." 


" Well," replied Mr. Dudley, "the evidence is purely 
circumstantial, though circumstantial evidence often con 
vinces a jury, and convicts a man. It is claimed against 
you that you have disappeared. From this it is argued 
that you are hiding from the police. The next deduction 
is, that if you fear the police, you are guilty. Per contra, 
whilst these deductions maybe true and logical, they are 
not necessarily so ; consequently, they are good only 
until refuted. For example, were you to go now to the 
District Attorney and surrender yourself, making the 
claim that you have been avoiding the police only to 
prevent arrest, preferring to present yourself to the law 
officers voluntarily, the whole theory of the police, from 
this one standpoint, falls to the ground utterly worth 

" Very well argued. Do you then advise me to sur 
render myself? But wait ! We will take that up later. 
Let me hear your views on the next fact against me. I 
refer to the statement that poison was found in the 

" Several interesting points occur to me," replied Mr. 
Dudley, speaking slowly. " Let me read the newspaper 
account again." He took up the paper, and after a min 
ute read aloud : The result of the autopsy, etc., etc., 
shows conclusively that the girl was poisoned. The 
doctors claim to have discovered morphine enough to 
kill three men. That is upon the face of it a premature 
statement. The woman died on Sunday morning. The 
autopsy was held yesterday. I believe it will require a 


chemical analysis before it can be asserted that morphine 
is present. Am I not correct ? " The Doctor made one 
of his non-committal replies. 

" Let us suppose that at the trial, expert chemists 
swear that they found morphine in poisonous quanti 

" Even then, the burden of proof would be upon the 
prosecution. They must prove not merely that mor 
phine was present in quantities sufficient to cause death, 
but that in this case it did actually kill. That is, they 
must show that Mabel Sloane died from poison, and not 
from diphtheria. That will be their great difficulty. We 
can have celebrated experts, as many as you can afford, 
and even though poison did produce the death, we can 
create such a doubt from the contradictions of the ex 
perts, that the jury would give you the verdict." 

" Very satisfactorily reasoned. I am encouraged. 
Now then, the next point. The drives with the rich 

" Oh ! That is a newspaper s argument, and would I 
have no place in a court of law, unless " 

" Yes ! Unless ? " 

" Unless the prosecution tried to prove that the mo 
tive for the crime was to rid yourself of your fiancee in 
order to marry a richer woman. Of course we should 
fight against the admission of any such evidence as 
tending to prejudice the jury against you, and untenable 
because the proof would only be presumptive." 

" Presumptive. That is as to my desire to marry the 


woman with whom I am said to have been out driving. 
Now then, suppose that it could be shown that, since 
the death of Mabel Sloane, and prior to the trial, I had 
actually married this rich woman ? " 

" I should say that such an act would damage your 
case very materially." 

" I only wished to have your opinion upon the point. 
Nothing of the sort has occurred. Well, gentlemen, I 
have decided to place my case in your hands. Will five 
hundred dollars satisfy you as a retaining fee ? " 

" Certainly." Mr. Dudley tried hard not to let it appear 
that he had never received so large a fee before. Dr. 
Medjora took a wallet from his pocket and counted out 
the amount. Mr. Bliss arose from his chair and started 
to leave the room, but as he touched the door knob the 
Doctor turned sharply and said : 

" Will you oblige me by not leaving the room ? " 

" Oh ! Certainly ! " replied Mr. Bliss, mystified, and 
returning to his seat. 

" Here, gentlemen, is the sum. I will take your receipt, 
if you please. Now then, as to your advice. Shall I 
surrender myself to the District Attorney, and so destroy 
argument number one, as you suggested ? " 

" But, Doctor," said Mr. Dudley, "you have not told 
us your defence." 

" I am satisfied with the one which you have outlined. 
Should future developments require it, I will tell you 
whatever you need to know, in order to perfect your 
case. For the present I prefer to keep silent." 


"Well, but really, unless you confide in your lawyers 
you materially weaken your case." 

" I have more at stake than you have, gentlemen ! 
You will gain in reputation, whatever may be the result. 
I risk my life. You must permit me therefore to conduct 
myself as I think best." 

" Oh ! Certainly, if that is your wish. As to your 
surrendering yourself, I strongly advise it, as you probably 
could not escape from the city, and even if you did, you 
would undoubtedly be recaptured." 

"There you are entirely wrong. Not only can I 
escape, as you term it, but I would never be retaken." 

" Then why take the risk of a trial ? Innocent men 
have been convicted, even when ably defended ! " 

" Yes, and guilty ones have escaped. But you ask 
why I do not leave New York. I answer, because I wish 
to remain here. Were I to run away from these charges, 
of course I should never be able to return." 

" Then, Doctor, I advise you to surrender." 

" I will adopt your advice. But not until the day after 
to-morrow. I have some affairs to settle first." 

" But you risk being captured by the detectives." 

" I think not," said the Doctor, with a smile. 

" Should we wish to communicate with you, where may 
we be able to find you, Doctor ? " 

Doctor Medjora appeared not to have heard the 
question. He said : 

" Oli ! By the w r ay, gentlemen, you need not either of 
you study up chemistry, as did Mr. Munson. You 


remember the case ? I know enough chemistry for any 
experts that they may introduce, and will formulate the 
main lines of their cross-examination myself. Let me 
refer to a point that you made. Did I understand you 
that if we can show that Mabel died of diphtheria, our 
case is won ? " 

" Why, certainly, Doctor. If we can prove that, we 
show that she died a natural death." 

" Of course, I understood that. I merely wished to 
show you what a simple thing our defence is. We will 
convince the jury of that. I will meet you at the office 
of the District Attorney at eleven o clock on the day 
after to-morrow. Good-morning, gentlemen." The 
Doctor bowed and left the room. The two lawyers 
looked at one another a moment, and then Mr. Dudley 
spoke : 

" What a singular man ! " 

" The most extraordinary man I ever met ! " 

" Robert, why did you start to leave the room ? " 

" Mortimer, that is a very curious thing. I had a sort 
of premonition that he would go away without leaving 
his address. I meant to instruct Barnes to shadow him, 
when he should leave. I wonder if he read my 
thoughts ?" 

" Rubbish ! But why not send Jack after him now ? 
He will catch up with him easily enough." 

Acting upon the suggestion, Mr. Bliss went into the 
outer office, and was annoyed to be told by the office 
boy that Jack Barnes had gone out half an hour before. 



JACK BARNES, at this time, had just attained his 
majority. He was studying law with Messrs. Dudley 
& Bliss, and acting as their office assistant. But it was 
by no means his intention ever to practise the profession, 
which he was acquiring with much assiduity. His one 
ambition was to be a detective. Gifted with a keen, 
logical mind, a strong disposition to study and solve 
problems, and possessing the rare faculty of never 
forgetting a face, or a voice, he thought himself endowed 
by nature with exactly the faculties necessary to make a 
successful detective. His study of law was butapre-, 
liminary, which, he rightly deemed, would be of value 
to him. 

Anxious, as he was, to try his wits against some noted 
criminal, the chance had never been his to make the 
effort. He had indeed ferreted out one or two so- 
called " mysterious cases," but these had been in a small 
country village, where a victory over the dull-witted 
constabulary had counted for little in his own estimation. 

Naturally he had read with avidity all the various 
newspaper accounts of the supposed murder of Mabel 
2 17 


Sloane, and it was with considerable satisfaction that he 
had read the name upon the card intrusted to him to be 
taken to his employers. It seemed to him that at last 
fortune had placed an opportunity within his grasp. 
Here was a man, suspected of a great crime, whom the 
great Metropolitan detective force had entirely failed to 
locate. From what he had read of Dr. Medjora, he 
quickly decided that, though he might consult Messrs. 
Dudley & Bliss, he would not intrust them with his 
address. Jack Barnes determined to follow the Doctor 
when he should leave the office. Thus it was, that he 
was absent when Mr. Bliss inquired for him. 

Descending by the elevator a contrivance oddly 
named, since it takes one down as well as up, he 
stationed himself in a secluded corner, whence he 
could keep watch upon the several exits from the 
building. Presently, he saw Dr. Medjora step from the 
elevator, and leave the building, after casting his eyes 
keenly about him, from which circumstance Barnes 
thought it best not to follow his man too closely. 
When, therefore, he saw the Doctor jump upon a Third 
Avenue horse-car, he contented himself with taking the 
next one following, and riding upon the front platform. 

He saw nothing of Dr. Medjora until the Harlem 
terminus was reached. Here his man alighted and 
walked rapidly across the bridge over the river, Barnes 
following by the footpath on the opposite side, keep 
ing the heavy timbers of the span between them as a 
screen. But, however careful Dr. Medjora had been to 


look behind him when leaving the lawyers offices, he 
evidently felt secure now, for he cast no anxious glances 
backward. Thus Barnes shadowed him with comparative 
ease, several blocks uptown, and then down a cross street, 
until at last he disappeared in a house surrounded by 
many large trees. 

Barnes stopped at the tumbled-down gate, which, 
swinging on one hinge, offered little hindrance to one 
who wished to enter. He looked at the house with 
curiosity. Old Colonial in architecture, it had evidently 
once been the summer home of wealthy folks. Now the 
sashless windows and rotting eaves marked it scarcely 
more than a habitat for crows or night owls. Wondering 
why Dr. Medjora should visit such a place, he was sud 
denly astonished to hear the sound of wheels rapidly 
approaching. Peeping back, he saw a stylish turn-out 
coming towards him, and it flashed across his mind that 
this might be the equipage in which the Doctor had been 
said to drive in the Park. Not wishing to be seen, he 
entered the grounds, ran quickly to the house, and 
admitted himself through a broken-down doorway that 
led to what had been the kitchen. He had scarcely 
concealed himself when the carriage stopped, a woman 
alighted, and walking up to the house, entered by the 
same door through which the Doctor had passed. Barnes 
was satisfied now that this meeting was pre-arranged, 
and that it would interest him greatly to overhear the 
conversation which would occur. 

Seeking a means of reaching the upper floor, he soon 


found a stairway from which several steps were absent, 
but he readily ascended. At the top, he stopped to 
listen, and soon heard low voices still farther up. The 
staircase in the main hall was in a fair state of preserva 
tion, and there was even the remains of an old carpet. 
Carefully stepping, so as to avoid creaking boards, he 
soon reached a level from which he could peep into the 
room at the head of the stairs, and there he saw the two 
whom he was following. But though he could hear their 
voices, he could not distinguish their words. To do so 
he concluded that he must get into the adjoining room, 
but he could not go farther upstairs without being 
detected, as the door was open affording the Doctor a 
clear view of the top of the stairway. 

Barnes formed his plan quickly. Reaching up with 
his hands, he took hold of the balustrade which ran 
along the hallway, and then, dangling in the air, he 
worked his way slowly from baluster to baluster, until 
he had passed the open doorway, and finally hung op 
posite the room which he wished to enter. Then he 
drew himself up, until he could rest a foot upon the floor 
of the hall, after which he quickly and noiselessly swung 
himself over and passed into the front room. That he 
succeeded, astonished him, after it had been done, for 
he could not but recognize that a single rotten baluster 
would either have precipitated him to the floor below, or 
at least by the noise of its breaking have attracted the 
attention of Dr. Medjora, who, be it remembered, was 
suspected of no less a crime than murder. 


Looking about the room in which he then stood, he 
took little note of the decaying furniture, but went at 
once to a door which he thought must communicate 
with the adjoinirrg room. Opening this very gently, he 
disclosed a narrow passageway, from which another door 
evidently opened into the room beyond. Stealthily he 
passed on, and pressing his ear against a wide crack, was 
pleased to find that he could easily hear what was said 
by the two in the next room. The conversation seemed 
to have reached the very point of greatest interest to him. 
The woman said : 

"I wish to know exactly your connection with this 
Mabel Sloane." 

" So do the police," replied the Doctor, succinctly." 

" But I am not the police," came next in petulant tones. 

" Exactly ! And not being the police you are out of 
your province, when investigating a matter supposed to 
be criminal." Barnes learned two things : first that 
the Doctor would not lose his temper, and therefore 
would not be likely to betray himself by revealing any 
thing beyond what his companion might already know ; 
and second, that she knew Ifttle as to his relation with 
Mabel Sloane. This was not very promising, yet he 
still hoped that something might transpire, which would 
repay all the trouble that he had taken. The woman 
spoke again quickly. 

" Then you are not going to explain this thing to me ? " 

" Certainly not, since you have not the right to ques 
tion me." 


" I have not the right ? I, whom you expect to marry ? 
I have not the right to investigate your relations with 
other women ? " 

" Not with one who is dead ! " 

" Dead or alive, I must know what this Mabel Sloane 
was to you, or else She hesitated. 

"Or else?" queried the Doctor, without altering his tone. 

" Or else I will not marry you." 

" Oh ! Yes, you will ! " replied the Doctor, with such 
a tone of certainty that his companion became exasper 
ated and stamped her feet as she replied in anger : 

" I will not ! I will not ! I will not ! " Then, as 
though her asseveration had slightly mollified her, she 
added : " Or if I do " and. then paused. 

" Continue ! " exclaimed the Doctor, still calm. " You 
pause at a most interesting period. Or if you do 

" Or if I do," wrathfully rejoined the woman - " I 11 
make your whole life a burden to you ! " 

" No, my wife that is to be, you will not even do that. 
Perhaps you might try, but I should not permit you to 
succeed in any such an undertaking. No, my dear friend, 
you and I are going to be a model couple, provided 

" Provided what ? " 

" That you curb your curiosity as to things that do 
not concern you." 

" But this does concern me." 

" As I have intimated already, Mabel Sloane being 
dead, you can have no interest whatever in knowing 
what relations existed between us." 


" Not even if, as the newspapers claim, she had a 

" Not even in that case." 

" Well, is there a child ? " 

" I have told you that it does not concern you." 

" Do you deny it ? " 

" I neither deny it, nor affirm it. You have read the 
evidence, and may believe it or not as you please." 

" Oh ! I hate you ! I hate you ! " She was again en 
raged. " I wonder why I am such a fool as to marry 
you ? " 

" Ah ! This time you show curiosity upon a subject 
which does concern you. Therefore I will enlighten you. 
You intend to marry me, first, because, in spite of the as 
sertion just made, you love me. That is to say, you love 
me as much as you can love any one other than yourself. 
Second, you are ambitious to be the wife of a celebrated 
man. You have been keen enough to recognize that I 
have genius, and that I will be a great man. Do you 
follow me ? " 

" You are the most supreme egotist that I have ever 
met." The words, meant as a sort of reproach, yet were 
spoken in tones which betokened admiration. 

" Thank you. I see you appreciate me for what I 
am. All egotists are but men who have more than the 
average ego, more than ordinary individuality. The 
supreme egotist, therefore, has most of all. Now, to con 
tinue the reasons for our marriage, perhaps you would 
like to know why I intend to marry you ?" 


" If your august majesty would condescend so far." 
The Doctor took no notice of the sneer, but said simply : 

" I too have my ambitions, but I need money with 
which to achieve success. You have money ! " 

" You dare to tell me that ! You are going to marry 
me for my money ! Never, you demon ! Never ! " 

" I thought you had concluded to be sensible and 
leave off theatricals. You look very charming when you 
are angry, but it prolongs this conversation to dangerous 
lengths. We may be interrupted at any moment by the 

" By the police ! In heaven s name how ? " In a 
moment she showed a transition from that emotion which 
spurned him, to that love for him which trembled for 
his safety. Thus wisely could this crafty physician play 
upon the feelings of those whom he wished to influence. 

" It is very simple. As much as you love me, you 
love your own comfort more. I asked you to come up 
here quietly. You came in your carriage, with driver 
and footman in full livery. Is that your idea of a quiet 
trip ? " 

" But I thought 

" No ! You did not think." The Doctor spoke sternly, 
and the woman was silent, completely awed. " If you 
had thought for one moment, you would have readily 
seen that the police are probably watching you, hoping 
that, through you, they might find me. Fortunately, 
however, I have thought of the contingency, and am 
prepared for it. But let us waste no more time. No ! 


Do not speak. Listen, and heed what I have to say. 
I have decided not to follow your suggestion. You wrote 
to me advising flight. That was another indiscretion, 
since your messenger might have been followed. How 
ever, I forgave you, for you not only offered to accom 
pany me, but you expressed a willingness to furnish the 
funds, as an earnest of which I found a thousand dollars 
in your envelope. A token, you see, of a love more in 
tense than that jealousy which a moment ago whispered 
to you to abandon me. From this, and other similar 
circumstances, I readily deduce that after all you will 
marry me. But to come to the point. I have consulted 
a firm of lawyers, and by their advice I shall surrender 
myself on the day after to-morrow." 

" You will surrender to the police ? " The woman was 
thoroughly alarmed. " They will convict you. They 
will ugh ! " She shuddered. 

" No," said the Doctor more kindly than he had as yet 
spoken. " Do not be afraid. They will neither convict 
me, nor hang me. I will stand my trial, and come out of 
it a freed man." 

" But if not ? Even innocent men have been con 

" Even innocent men ! Why do you say even ? Do 
you doubt that I am innocent ? " 

" No ! No ! But this is what I mean. Although in 
nocent you might be brought in guilty." 

" Well, even so, I must take the chance. All my hopes, 
all my ambitions, all that I care for in life depend upon 


my being a free man. I cannot ostracize myself, and 
reach my goal. So the die is cast. But there is another 
thing that I must tell you. We cannot be married at 

" Not married ? Why not ? Why delay ? I wish to 
marry you now, when you are accused, to prove to you 
how much I love you ! " Thus she showed the vacillation 
of her impulsive, passionate nature. 

" I appreciate your love, and your generosity. But it 
cannot be. My lawyers advise against it, and I agree 
with them that it would be hazardous. Next, I must 
have money with which to carry on my defence. When 
can you give it to me ? You must procure cash. It 
would not be well for me to present your check at my 
bankers. The circumstances forbid it, lest the prosecu 
tion twist it into evidence against me." 

" When I received your note bidding me to meet you 
here, I thought that you contemplated flight. I have 
brought some money with me. Here are five thousand 
dollars. If you need more I will get it." 

" This will suffice for the present. I thank you. Will 
you kiss me ? " A sound followed which showed that 
this woman, eager for affection, gladly embraced the 
opportunity accorded to her. At the same moment 
there was a loud noise heard in the hall below, from 
which it was plain that several persons had entered. 

" The police ! " exclaimed the Doctor. Then there 
was a pause as though he might be listening, and then 
he continued, speaking rapidly: " As I warned you, 


they have followed you. Hush ! Have no fear. I shall 
not be taken. I am prepared. But you ! You must 
wait up here undisturbed. When they find you, you 
must explain that you came here to look at the property, 
which you contemplate buying. And now, whatever 
may happen, have no fear for my safety. Keep cool and 
play your part like the brave little woman that I know 
you to be." 

There was the sound of a hurried kiss, and then 
Barnes was horrified to see the door at which he was lis 
tening, open, and to find himself confronted by Dr. Med- 
jora. But if Barnes was taken by surprise, the Doctor was 
even more astonished. His perturbation however passed 
in a moment, for he recognized Barnes quickly, and thus 
knew that at least he was not one of the police. Step 
ping through the door, he pulled it shut after him, and 
turned a key which was in the lock, and, placing the 
key in his pocket, thus closed one exit. Barnes retreated 
into the next room and would have darted out into the 
hall, had not the strong arm of the Doctor clutched him, 
and detained him. The Doctor then locked that door 
also, after which he dragged Barnes back into the pas 
sage between the two rooms. Here he shook him until 
his teeth chattered, and though Barnes was not lacking 
in courage, he felt himself so completely mastered, that 
he was thoroughly frightened. 

" You young viper," hissed the Doctor through his 
teeth. " You will play the spy upon me, will you ? How 
long have you been listening here ? But wait. There 


will be time enough later for your explanations. You 
remain in here, or I will take your life as mercilessly as 
I- would grind a rat with my heel." As though to prove 
that he was not trifling, he pressed the cold barrel of a 
revolver against Barnes s temple, until the young man 
began to realize that tracking murderers was not the 
safest employment in the world. 

Leaving Barnes in the passageway the Doctor went 
into the front room, and Barnes was horrified by what 
he saw next. Taking some matches from his pocket he 
deliberately set fire to the old hangings at the windows, 
and then lighted the half rotten mattress which rested 
upon a bedstead, doubly inflammable from age. Despite 
his fear Barnes darted out, only to be stopped by Dr. 
Medjora, who forcibly dragged him back into the pas 
sageway, and then stood in the doorway watching the 
flames as they swiftly fed upon the dry material. 

" Dr. Medjora," cried Barnes, " you are committing a 
crime in setting this house afire ! " 

" You are mistaken. This house is mine, and not 

" But there are people in it ! " 

They will have ample time to escape ! " 

" But I ? How shall I escape ? " 

" I do not intend that you shall escape." 

" Do you mean to murder me ? " 

" Have patience and you will see. There, I guess 
that fire will not be easily extinguished." Then to the 
amazement of young Barnes the Doctor stepped back 


into the passageway, and closed and locked the door. 
Thus they were in total darkness, in a small passage 
way having no exit save the doors at each end, both of 
which were locked. Already the fire could be heard 
roaring, and bright gleams of light appeared through the 
chinks in the oak door. At this moment voices were 
heard in the next room. The Doctor brushed Barnes to 
one side and took the place near the crevice to hear 
what passed. 

" Madam," said the voice of a man evidently a police 
man, " where is Dr. Medjora ? " 

" Dr. Medjora ? " replied the woman. " Why, how 
should I know ? " 

" You came here to meet him. It is useless to try to 
deceive me. We tracked you to this house, and, what is 
more, the man himself was seen to enter just before you 
did. We only waited long enough to surround the 
grounds so that there would be no chance to escape. 
Now that you see how useless it is for him to hide, you 
may as well tell us where he is, and save time ! " 

" I know nothing of the man for whom you are seek 
ing. I came here merely to look over the property, with 
a view to buying it." 

" What, buy this old rookery ! That s a likely yarn." 

" I should not buy it for the house, but for the beauti 
ful grounds." 

" Well, I can t stop to argue with you. If you won t 
help us, we 11 get along without you. He is in the house. 
I know that much." 


" Sarjent ! Sarjent ! Git outer this ! The house is 
on fire !" This announcement, made in breathless tones 
by another man who had run in, caused a commotion, 
and, coming so unexpectedly, entirely unnerved the 
woman, who hysterically cried out : 

" He is in there ! Open that door ! Save him ! Save 
him ! " 

Dr. Medjora smothered an ejaculation of anger, as in 
response to the information thus received, the police be 
gan hammering upon the door. Old as it was, it was of 
heavy oak and quite thick. The lock, too, was a good 
one and gave no signs of yielding. 

" Where is the fire ? " exclaimed the sergeant. 

" In the front room," answered the other man. 

"Get the men up here. Bring axes, or anything that 
can be found to break in with. " The man hurried oil, in 
obedience to this order, and the policeman said to the 
woman : 

" Madam, you d better get out of this. It is going to 
be hot work ! " 

"No! No! I ll stay here." 

Barnes wondered what was to be the outcome of 
the situation, and was surprised to hear the sound of 
bolts being pushed through rusty bearings. Dr. Med 
jora was further fortifying the door against the coming 
attack. Barnes would have assailed the other door, but 
from the roar of the flames he knew that no safety lay in 
that direction. Presently heavy blows were rained upon 
the door, showing that an axe had been found. In a few 



moments the panel splintered, and through a gap thus 
made could be seen the figure of the man wielding the axe. 
It seemed as though he would soon batter down the barrier 
which separated Barnes from safety, when at the next 
blow the handle of the axe broke in twain^ A moment 
more, and a deafening crash and a rush of smoke into 
the passageway indicated that a part of the roof had 
fallen in. The sergeant grasped the woman by the 
shoulders, and dragged her shrieking, from the doomed 
house, which was now a mass of flames. The little knot 
of policemen stood apart and watched the destruction, 
waiting to see some sign of Dr. Medjora. But they saw 
nothing of the Doctor, nor of Barnes, of whom, indeed, 
they did not know. 



ALL New York, that afternoon, was treated to a sen 
sational account in the afternoon " Extra" newspapers, 
of the supposed holocaust of the suspected murderer of 
Mabel Sloane. Yet in truth not only was Dr. Medjora 
safe and well, but he had never been in any serious 

As soon as the police had abandoned the effort to 
batter in the door, Dr. Medjora turned and said to young 
Barnes : 

" It would serve you right were I to leave you in here 
to be burned, in punishment for your audacity in spying 
upon me. Instead of that, I shall take you out with me, 
if only to convince you that I am not a murderer. Give 
me your hand ! " 

Barnes obeyed, satisfied that even though treachery 
were intended, his predicament could not be made worse 
than it already was. By the dim light which occasionally 
illuminated the passageway, as the flames flared up, 
momentarily freed from the smoke, and shone through 
the crack in the door, already burned considerably, 
Barnes now saw the Doctor stoop and feel along the 



wainscoting, finally lifting up a sliding panel, which 
disclosed a dark opening beyond. 

" Fear nothing, but follow me," said the Doctor. " Step 
lightly though, as these stairs are old and rickety." Much 
astonished, Barnes followed the Doctor into the opening, 
and cautiously descended the narrow winding stairs, still 
holding one hand of the man who preceded him. He 
counted the steps, and calculated that he must be near- 
ing the basement, when a terrible crash overhead made 
him look up. For one moment he caught a glimpse of 
blue sky, which in a second was hidden by lurid flames, 
and then darkness ensued, whilst a shower of debris fall 
ing about him plainly indicated that the burning build 
ing was tumbling in. The hand which held his, gripped it 
more tightly and their descent became more rapid, but 
beyond that, there was no sign from the Doctor that he 
was disturbed by the destroying elemenLabove them. In 
a few more moments they stood upon a flat cemented, 
floor. * 

" It seems odd," said the Doctor, with a laugh that 
sounded ghoulish, considering their position, " that I 
should need to ask you for a match when there is so 
much fire about us. But I used my last one upstairs." 
Barnes fumbled in his pocket, and finding one, drew it 
along his trouser leg until it ignited. As the flame flared 
up, a dull red glare illumined the face of Dr. Medjora, 
making him seem in his companion s fancy the proto 
type of Mephistopheles himself. Again the Doctor 



" Afraid to trust me with fire, eh ? Is that why you 
lighted it yourself ? Never mind. I only wished to get 
my bearings. It is long since I have been in this place. 
See, here is a door to the right." He grasped the iron 
handle, and after some exertion the bolt shot back, but 
when he pushed against it the door did not yield. At 
the same moment the match spluttered and the flame 

" Help me push this door," said the Doctor. Barnes 
obeyed most willingly, but their combined efforts still 
failed to move it. 

"Well," said the Doctor, " my young friend, it looks 
as though we were doomed, after all. In case we should 
fail to escape, when we are thus unexpectedly hurried 
into the presence of the secretary of the other world, in 
making your statement, I trust you will not forget that 
you cannot blame me for the accident which curtails 
your earthly existence. It was no fault of mine that you 
were in the passageway above, nor could I foresee that 
we could not open this door." 

This sacrilegious speech, made in a tone of voice 
which showed in what contempt the speaker held the 
great mystery of life and death, chilled young Barnes 
so that he shivered. It made him more than convinced 
that this man was fully capable of committing the mur 
der which had been attributed to him. At the same 
time, as the Doctor appeared to have abandoned the 
effort to escape, despair rendered Barnes more coura 
geous, and sharpened his senses so that he could think 


for himself. Freeing his hand from the other s grasp, 
he felt about until he found the edge of the door, and 
rapidly searched for the hinges. In a few moments a 
cry of gladness escaped from him. 

" It is all right, Doctor. The hinges are on our side. 
We must pull the door to open it, and not push it as we 
have been doing." 

" Good ! " said the Doctor. " I knew that. I was only 
trying you. You are clever. And courageous. Too 
much so for me to run any risks." The last words were 
spoken as though to himself. He continued : " Come. 
We must get out of this before it is too late ! " He 
opened the door, which moved so easily that Barnes 
readily comprehended that the Doctor must have held it 
firmlyshutwhilstthe two had been trying to open it, else his 
own shaking would have disclosed the fact that it opened 
inward. Thus he saw that Dr. Medjora spoke truly, 
and had only been submitting him to a test. He fol 
lowed through the door, glad once more to have hope 
before him, for had the Doctor intended to destroy him, 
it would have been easy enough to shut the door, leaving 
him behind, fastening it, as he did now, with a heavy bolt. 

" There is little chance of our being followed," said 
the Doctor, as he thus barred the way behind them, 
" but it is as well to be careful. And now that we are 
safe, for this vault is fire-proof, I will let you see where 
you are." In a moment the Doctor had found a match 
and lighted a lamp, and Barnes gazed about him 


At most he had expected to find himself in some for 
gotten vault or old wine-cellar. What he saw was quite 
different. The apartment, if such a term may be em 
ployed, was spacious, and formed in a perfect circle, with 
a hemispherical roof. This dome was covered with 
what, in the dim light, appeared to be hieroglyphical 
sculpture. What puzzled Barnes most was that no 
seams appeared, from which he concluded that the 
entire cavern must have been hewn out of the solid rock. 
The floor also was of stone, elaborately carved, and, ap 
pearing continuous with the ceiling, at once presented 
an impossible problem in engineering. For the door 
through which they had entered evidently had no con 
nection with the original design of the structure, since it 
was of modern style, and, moreover, the doorway, cut 
for its insertion, had destroyed the continuity of the 
carvings on the wall, which, to the height of this door 
way, represented a seemingly endless procession, inter 
rupted only by the cutting of the opening, which thus 
showed curiously divided bodies of men and women 
along its two edges. In the centre of the place was a 
singular stone, elaborately carved, with a polished upper 
surface. Upon this Dr. Medjora seated himself, after 
having lighted the lamp which hung like a censer from 
the centre of the roof. Barnes looked at him, awed 
into silence. Allowing him a few minutes to contemplate 
his surroundings, the Doctor said : 

" You are Jack Barnes, the assistant of Dudley & 
Bliss. You are ambitious to become a detective 


Therefore, when you read my name on my card this 
morning, you thought it a good opportunity to track a 
murderer, did you not ? Answer me, and tell me no 
lies ! " 

" Yes, " said Barnes, surprised to find that a curious 
sensation in his throat, as though he were parching, pre 
cluded his saying more. 

"Well, you have tracked the murderer to his den. 
What do you think of the place. Safe enough from the 
police, eh ! " The Doctor laughed in a soft congratula 
tory way, which grated upon his hearer s ear. He con 
tinued, as though to himself : " And Dudley & Bliss 
warned me that I could not escape from the police. I, 
Emanuel Medjora ! I could not escape ! " Then he 
burst out into a prolonged ringing peal of laughter 
which made Barnes tremble affrighted, as a hundred 
echoes for the moment made his imagination picture 
myriads of demons chiming in with the merriment of 
their master. 

" Come here," cried the Doctor, checking his laugh. 
Barnes hesitated and then retreated. " Come here, you 
coward ! " said the Doctor, in a sterner voice. The taunt 
made the blood course more swiftly through the young 
man s veins, and the laugh of the demon echo having 
died away, he threw his head up and approached the 
stone, stopping within a few feet of Dr. Medjora, and 
looking him in the eye. 

" Ah ! As I thought. A strong will, for a youngster. 
I must use strategy." This so softly that Barnes did 


not comprehend the sense of the words. Then the 
Doctor spoke in his most alluring manner : 

" You are plucky, Mr. Barnes. This is a gruesome 
place, and I have brought you here under such peculiar 
circumstances that you might well be alarmed. But I 
see that you are not, and I admire you for your courage. 
It is his courage that has made man the master 
of all the animal world. By that he controls beasts, 
who could rend him to a thousand bits, with ease : only 
they dare not. So, for your courage, I forgive your 
impudence, and I might say imprudence, in following 
me this morning." 

Barnes was mystified by this alteration of manner, and 
was not such a fool that he did not suspect that it boded 
him no special favor. He did not reply, not knowing 
what to say. The Doctor jumped up from his seat, 
saying pleasantly : 

" I am forgetting my politeness. You are my guest, 
and I am occupying the only available seat. Pardon 
me, and be seated." Barnes hesitated, and the Doctor 
said, " Oblige me ! " in a tone which made Barnes think 
it wise to comply. He therefore seated himself on the 
stone, and the Doctor muttered low to himself : 

" How innocently he goes to the sacrifice," words 
which Barnes did not hear and would not have under 
stood had he done so. Then the Doctor laughed with a 
muffled, gurgling sound, which, answered by the echoes, 
again made Barnes feel uncomfortable. 

" Now then, Mr. Barnes," began Dr. Medjora, " I have 


no doubt that your curiosity has been aroused, and that 
you would like to know what sort of place this is, and 
how it came here. It is a very curious story altogether, 
and as we shall find time hang heavily on our hands 
whilst the fire is burning upstairs, I cannot entertain you 
better, perhaps, than with the tale. You know, of course, 
or you have heard, that I am a physician. But no 
one knows how thoroughly entitled I am to the 
name. I am a lineal descendant of the great ^Escu- 
lapitis himself." Barnes stared, wondering whether 
the man were mad. Having begun his recital, Dr. 
Medjora apparently took no more notice of Barnes than 
though he had not been present. But whilst he spoke, 
with his hands clasped behind his back, he began to 
pace around the room, thus walking in a circle about 
Barnes, as he sat upon the stone in the centre. 

" The ancient Mexicans worshipped a god to whom 
they built pyramids. This was no other than my great 
ancestor yEsculapius. He was also known to many of 
the races that inhabited the great North country. Here 
in this place, a powerful tribe built a great pyramid, the 
top of which was this dome, hewn from a single rock, 
and carved, as you see, with characters which, trans 
lated, would tell secrets which would astound the world. 
The man who acquires all the knowledge here in 
scribed, may well call himself the master of this century. 
I will be that man ! " 

He had increased his pace as he walked around, so 
that during this speech he had made three circles about 


Barnes, who, astonished as much by his actions as by his 
words, had followed him with his eyes, turning his head 
as far as possible in one direction to accomplish this, 
and then rapidly turning it to the opposite side so that 
he might not lose sight of the Doctor. As the last words 
were uttered, the Doctor stopped suddenly before him, 
and hurled the words at him as though they contained a 
menace. But Barnes flinched only slightly, and the 
Doctor continued his walk and his narrative. 

" Yes, for here on these rocks are graven the sum of 
all the knowledge of the past, which the great cataclysm 
lost to us for so many centuries. This dome was the 
summit of the great temple. This floor was a hundred 
feet below it, and was the floor of the edifice. Then 
came the flood. The earth quaked, the waters rose, the 
earth parted, the temple was riven, and the dome fell, 
here upon this floor, and the record of the greatest wis 
dom in the world was buried beneath the earth. Lost ! 
Lost ! Lost ! ! " 

His gyrations had increased in rapidity, so that he had 
run around Barnes six times during the above speech, 
and, as before, he stopped to confront him, fairly scream 
ing the last words. Barnes began to feel odd in his 
head from turning it to watch this man who, he had now 
decided, was surely a madman, and as the Doctor screamed 
out " Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! " almost in his face, he started 
to his feet, standing upon the stone and prepared to 
defend himself if necessary. As though much amused 
at this action, Dr. Medjora threw back his head and 


laughed. Laughed long and loud ! Laughed until 
the answering echoes reverberated through the place as 
though a million tongues had been hidden in the recesses. 
Stopping suddenly, he began racing around again, and 
resumed his story : 

" And so came that great cataclysm which all corners 
of the world record as the flood. So the great Atlantis, 
the centre of the civilization of the world, was lost for 
centuries, until at last re-discovered and re-christened 
America. yEsculapius perished, and his wisdom died. 
His records were hidden. But he left a son, and that 
son another, and from him sprung another, and another, 
and another, and so on, and on, as time sped, until to 
day I am the last of the great line. Ha ! You doubt 
it. You think that I am lying. Then how comes it that 
I am here ? Here in the treasure house of my great an 
cestor ? Because among my people there are traditions, 
and one told of this temple. I studied it, and worked it 
out, until I located it. Then I came here and found 
this old house built over it. And I knew that it covered 
the greatest secret in all the world. But it contained 
another secret too. A simple, easy secret for a man like 
me to solve. A secret staircase, built by some stupid old 
colonist, to lead him down to a secret wine-cellar, which 
is on the other side of that stairway. But Providence 
would not permit the old drunkard to turn to the right, 
in digging for his vault, or he would have entered this 
chamber, as I have done. I found this staircase, and 
cut my way into this place, which I closed with that iron 


door. And you, you fool, thought that I did not know 
how to open a door that I had built myself." His 
laugh rang out again, and the piercing shrieks, coming 
back from the echoes, darted through Barnes s brain, 
confused by his pivotal turning on the stone as he tried 
to follow the Doctor racing around the chamber, and as 
the man now rushed at him screaming : 

" Now ! Now ! You fool, you are mine ! Mine ! All 
mine ! " Barnes felt as though something in his brain 
had snapped, and, tottering, he threw up his arms, and 
then sank down, to be caught by Dr. Medjora, who lifted 
him as though he had been a child, and laid him upon 
the floor. Placing his ear to his heart a moment, the 
Doctor arose to his feet with a satisfied expression and 
speaking low, said : 

" He is now thoroughly frightened, but the shock will 
not kill him. When he wakes he will be mine indeed ! 
I will play the little trick, and I can be safe without fear 
from this." He kicked the prostrate form lightly with 
his foot, and then lifted Barnes up and sat him upon the 
stone as he slowly revived, supporting him until he had 
sufficiently recovered not to need assistance. Then he 
placed himself in front of Barnes, and as soon as the 
young man seemed to have regained his senses he folded 
his arms and said sternly : 

" Look at me ! " Barnes obeyed for a moment and then 
turned away and would have risen, but the doctor called 
out authoritatively : 

"You cannot get up ! You have no legs ! " Barnes 


reached down with his hands towards his legs, only to be 
stopped by the words : 

" You cannot feel ! You have no hands ! Now look 
at me ! Look ! I command you ! " Barnes gazed help 
lessly into the Doctor s eyes, and the latter continued, in 
a voice of peremptory sternness : 

" Now answer me when I speak to you. Do you 
understand ? " 

" Yes, I understand. I will answer ! " The voice 
did not seem to be the normal tones of the young man, 
and a smile passed over the Doctor s face as he 
went on. 

" Do you know who you are ? If so, tell me ! " 

" I am Jack Barnes ! " 

" And who am I ?" 

" Doctor Medjora ! " 

" Do you know where you are ? " 

" Yes ! In the chamber of yEsculapius ! " 

" If I let you go from here, what will you do ? " 

" I would tell the police what I know ! " 

" Good ! Now listen to me ! " 

" I am listening ! " 

" You wish to escape ? " 


" I am your master ? " 

" You are my master ! " 

" You must obey my commands ! You understand 
that ? " 

" I must obey your commands. I understand that ! " 


" You are asleep now ? " 

"Yes, I am asleep ! " 

" But if I give you a command now when you are 
asleep, you will obey it when I allow you to awaken ?" 

" What you command when I am asleep, I will do 
when you let me be awake ! " 

" You followed me to-day ? " 

" I followed you." 

" You will forget that ? " 

No answer came from the sleeper. The crucial test 
had come. The contest of wills. The Doctor, how 
ever, was determined to succeed. Success meant a 
great deal to him, for he must either kill this man, 
or else control him. He did not consider the first 
expedient. Murder was not even in his thought. He 
stepped up to Barnes and took his two hands. 

"You will forget that you followed me?" 

Still no reply. The Doctor gently closed the open 
eyes of the sleeper, and rubbed them with a rotary 
movement of the thumb. Again he ventured : 

" You will forget that you followed me ? You will 
forget that you followed Dr. Medjora ? " A pause, 
a quiver of the released eyelids, which opened slowly, 
allowing the eyes to gaze at the Doctor ; then the lids 
closed again, a shiver passed over the sleeper s body, 
and the voice spoke : 

" I will obey ! I will forget ! " 

" You will forget that you followed me ? " 

" I will forget ! " 


" Repeat what 1 say. You will forget that you fol 
lowed me ? " 

" I will forget that I followed you ! " 

" You will forget that you saw me and heard me 
speaking to a woman ? " 

" I will forget that you were speaking to a woman ! " 

" You will forget that there was a fire ? " 

" I will forget the fire ! " 

" You will forget the secret staircase ? " 

" I will forget the staircase ! " 

u The secret staircase ! " The Doctor was determined 
to take no risk. 

" I will forget the secret staircase ! " said the sleeper. 

" You will forget this room ? " 

" I will forget this room ! " 

" Finally, you will forget that you have been asleep ? " 

" Finally, I will forget that I have been asleep ! " 

" Good ! That ought to be safe enough ! " This the 
Doctor said to himself, but the sleeper replied : 

" Good ! That ought to be safe enough ! " 

"Pah ! He is a mere automaton," said the Doctor. 

u A mere automaton ! " repeated Barnes. 

At this last sally the Doctor burst out into uncontrolled 
laughter, so much heartier than before that it was plain 
that his previous laughing had been but a part of his 
scheme to overawe the strong young will of his com 
panion, by raising up the affrighting echoes. The 
sleeper joined in with this laughing, imitating it almost 
note for note, and the answering echoes adding to the 


bedlam, made the place indeed like some dwelling-place 
of evil spirits. The Doctor s hilarity passed, and placing 
one hand upon Barnes s shoulder, in a voice of command 
he cried! 

" Silence ! " At once the stillness of death ensued, 
as though each gibbering demon had scurried back into 
his hiding-place. The Doctor took the young man s 
head in both hands, the palms open against the temples, 
and a thumb over each eye. Rubbing the closed lids 
gently, at the same time pressing the temples, he spoke 
in deep resonant tones. 

" Sleep ! Sleep more deeply! Sleep unconscious ! 
Sleep oblivious ! Sleep as though dead, but awaken 
when I call upon you to awaken ! " 

He continued his manipulations a few moments, and 
then removed his hands. The eyelids released, slowly 
opened, and the sleeper gazed at him. Then as slowly 
they closed again, and being shut, twitched and flut 
tered as the heart of a dying bird might do. More 
and more quiet the movements became, till at length all 
was still. Then the erect head sank gently down, until 
it rested upon the breast, and the body swayed, and 
slipped by easy stages from the stone to the floor, 
where, as it turned over and lay prone upon the face, 
a long-drawn sigh escaped, and Barnes lay as one dead. 
The Doctor gazed silent, satisfied, yet as though awed 
by his own work. Then he lost himself in reverie. 

" And this thing is a man. A strong healthy body 
encasing a powerful will. Yet where now is that will ? 


What has become of the soul that tenants this shell, 
which now seems empty, dead. Escaped, gone, and at 
my bidding ! He sleeps, he is not dead, says the 
scientist. What wily excuses men make for their igno 
rance. If he sleeps, he is dead, for sleep is death, dif 
ferent only because there is an awakening. Yet in the 
true death is there not an awakening ? All analogy cries 
out Yes ! Now this man sleeps, and I have made him 
thus temporarily dead. Except at my bidding there can 
be no awakening on this earth. Then if I do not bid 
him rise, am I a murderer ? The law would say so. 
The law ! The law ! Pah ! The law that says that, is 
but a written token of man s ignorance. For if I leave 
him here, he still must awaken. And who can say that 
if I leave him to awaken in another world he might not 
thank me so much, that his spirit in gratitude would be 
come my attendant guardian, until his foolish fellow-men, 
having hanged my body to a gibbet, by a rope, should 
send my soul into eternity beside him. My soul ! Have 
I a soul ? Yes ! and not yet is it prepared to pass be 
yond the limit of this life. No, despite the laws, and 
the minions of the laws, I will live to reap the harvest 
which my great ancestor has garnered here. So this 
fellow must be awakened and restored to his place 
amongst his kind ! Will it be safe ? I have made his 
mind a blank. But will it so remain ? His will is 
strong. He offered more resistance than any upon 
whom I have tried my power. Had I not first numbed 
his brain by twisting it into knots, I doubt that I should 


have controlled him. So if I release him, to-morrow in 
his waking senses he will perceive that several hours of 
his life are as a blank. He will realize that during that 
time something must have occurred that he has forgot 
ten, and all his energy will be aroused to force remem 
brance. There is a vivid danger should he recall his 
experience, before my trial occurs and ends. And with 
our stupid laws who may say when that may be ? Ah ! 
I have the trick. His mind is now a blank, and these 
few hours will be a void. I have charged him to forget. 
Now I must bid him to remember, and furnish him with 
the incidents with which to account for the lapse of 
time. I will take him near the truth. So near that 
fluctuating recollection will be unable to disentangle fact 
from fiction. Thus what he recalls will bear no menace 
to my safety, and yet will so satisfy his will to know 
what has passed, that no great effort will be made to 
delve deeper into the records of this day. But first I 
must take him from this sacred place. It will be safer." 
He opened the iron door, lifted the body of the sleeper 
in his arms and bore it into the passage at the foot of 
the stairs. Immediately opposite, there was another 
door, dimly shown by the light from the swinging lamp. 
This he kicked open with his foot, without dropping his 
burden. He walked straight across, through the dark 
ness of this old wine cellar, towards a dim ray of light 
which penetrated at the opposite end, presently coming 
to a low arch through which he passed with lowered 
head, emerging into greater light. They were now in an 


old cistern, and a circular opening above permitted the 
moonlight to enter. Here the Doctor laid the sleeper 
gently down, and retraced his steps. Re-entering the 
domed chamber, he extinguished the lamp, and then 
again emerged, closing the door behind him. From a 
corner under the stairway he procured a long-handled, 
heavy, iron hammer, such as men use who break large 
rocks. He next went into the wine cellar, closing the 
door behind him, and thence passed on through the 
archway into the cistern. Taking one glance at the 
still sleeping form of Jack Barnes, he threw off his coat, 
and attacked the brick-work of the arch, raining upon it 
heavy blows, each of which demolished a part of the 
thick wall. At the end of half an hour the opening was 
choked with fallen debris, and the entrance into the wine 
vault thus effectually concealed. 

This task accomplished, the Doctor resumed his coat, 
and turned to examine the sleeper. He raised him up, 
and stood him against that side of the wall upon which 
the most light was shed. As the body was thus sup 
ported, the head hanging, and the weird half-light 
making the face more ghastly, one might readily have 
supposed that this was a corpse. But the Doctor pres 
ently cried out : 

" Awaken ! Awaken ! not entirely, but so that you 
may hear and speak ! " 

In an instant the head was lifted, the eyes opened, and 
the voice said : 

" I am awake ! I can hear and speak ! " 


" Good ! " exclaimed the Doctor. " Tell me, what do 

you remember ? " 

" You commanded me to remember nothing ! " 

" True ! I commanded ! But do you remember ? " 

" You are the master ! I have forgotten ! " 

" I am the master. Now I tell you to remember ! " 

" It is impossible ! I cannot remember what I have 

forgotten, unless you tell it to me again ! " 

" Very true. I will tell you what you have forgotten, 

and you will then remember it. You will remember 

even after you are awakened ! " 

" I will obey. I will remember what you tell me ! " 
"You left your office this afternoon to follow Dr. 


" Yes ! I followed Dr. Medjora ! " 

" He took a car, and you took another ? " 

" He took a car, and I took another ! " 

" He left the car, and you followed him to a house 

and saw him enter ? " 

" I saw him enter a house ! " 

" Then there was a fire and you watched the house 

burning? " 

" I saw the house burning ! " 

" Then you rushed forward and fell into this well ? " 

" I rushed forward and fell into the well ! " 

" You will remember all this ? " 

" Yes, I will remember ! " 

" Everything else you have forgotten ? Nothing else 

occurred ? " 


" Nothing else occurred ! " 

" Now sleep ! " The Doctor passed his hands over the 
eyes and the deep sleep was resumed. The Doctor 
pressed his lips near the sleeper s ears, and said : 

" You will awaken completely in two hours, climb out 
of this place, and return to your home ! " 

To this there was no reply, bu t the Doctor had no 
doubt that the injunction would be followed. He laid 
Barnes down upon the bottom of the cistern so that his 
opening eyes would gaze directly at the orifice above, 
and then, climbing upon a lot of loose rubbish, he easily 
reached the edge of the hole, and clutching it with his 
strong hands drew himself out. 

Exactly two hours later, Barnes opened his eyes and 
slowly awakened to a sense of stiffness and pain in his 
limbs. He staggered up, and soon was sufficiently 
aroused to see that he must climb out of the place 
where he was. This he did with some difficulty, and 
after wandering about for nearly an hour he found his 
way to the bridge and crossed the river. Thence he 
went home, threw himself on his bed, and was soon 
wrapped in deep, but natural slumber. 

In the morning he wondered why he had slept in his 
clothing. His head ached, and his limbs felt bruised. 
Slowly he seemed to recall his following Dr. Medjora, 
his tracking him across the bridge, the house afire, and 
his tumble into a well, from which he had climbed out 
late at night. In fact nothing remained in his recollec 
tion except what had been suggested by Dr. Medjora 


whilst he had been hypnotized. Still in a vague way 
he half doubted, until at breakfast he found seeming 
corroboration in the newspaper account, which told 
that the suspected man had been burned to death. 
How could he reject so good an authority as his morn 
ing paper ? 



MADAM CORA CORONA watched the destruction of the 
old mansion in which she had last seen her lover, with 
mingled feelings of horror and of hope. At one moment 
it seems impossible that the Doctor could find a means 
of escaping from the flames, whilst at the next she could 
but remember the manner of man that he was, and that 
having told her of his intention to surrender to the 
police, he would scarcely have chosen so horrible a 
death whilst immediate safety was attainable by simply 
opening the door of the passageway before the flames 
enveloped the whole building. Besides, how did the 
fire occur ? He must have started it himself, and, if so, 
with what object, except to cover up his escape ? But 
love, such as she bore this man, could never be entirely 
free from its anxiety, until the most probable reasoning 
should become assured facts. So, with a dull pain of 
dread gnawing at her heart, she drove her horses home, 
holding the reins herself, and lashing the animals into a 
swift gait, which made their chains clank as they strained 
every nerve to obey their mistress s behest. 

Reaching her sumptuous home on Madison Avenue, 


she hurried to her own room, passing servants, who 
moved out of her way awed by her appearance, for those 
who dwelt with her had learned to recognize the signs 
which portended storm, and were wise enough to avoid 
the violence of her anger. 

Tossing aside her bonnet and mantle, regardless of 
where they fell, Madam Corona dropped into a large, 
well-cushioned arm-chair, and gazed into vacancy, with a 
hopeless despair depicted on her features. The death 
of Dr. Medjora would mean much to this woman, and as 
the minutes sped by, the conviction that he must have 
perished, slowly burned itself into her brain. 

She was the widow of a wealthy Central American. 
Her husband had been shot as a traitor, having been 
captured in one of those ever-recurring revolutions, 
whose leaders are killed if defeated, but made governors 
if they succeed ; rulers until such time when another 
revolutionary party may become strong enough to de 
pose the last victors. Thus the chance of a battle makes 
men heroes, or criminals. 

She had never loved her husband, and, with a sensual, 
passionate temperament, which had never been satisfied 
by her marriage, she welcomed her freedom and her 
husband s wealth as a possible step towards that love 
for which she longed. Exiled from her own country, 
because of the politics of her dead husband, she had 
come to the United States, the home of all aliens. Her 
estates had not been confiscated, for fear that the fires 
of the revolution, smothered but not quenched, might 


have been again stirred by a seeming warring against the 
woman. But the President had said to his council : 

" Madam Corona is too rich, and she talks too much." 
So the hint had been given to her to depart, and she 
had acquiesced, glad enough to retain her fortune. 

In New York she had been welcomed amidst the 
Spanish-Americans, and with a different temperament 
might readily have endeared to herself a host of true 
friends. But her selfish desire for a despotic sway over 
all who came near, and her extreme jealousy of atten 
tions to others, imbued those who made her acquaintance 
with an aversion which was scarcely concealed by the 
thin veneer of the polite formalities of social life. So 
she knew that in the new, as in the old home, she had no 

One day she was taken ill, and sent for Dr. Medjora, 
of whom she had heard, though she had not met him. 
His skill brought about her rapid recovery, and, being 
attracted by his fine appearance, she invited him to visit 
her as a friend. He availed himself of this opportunity 
to become intimate with a wealthy patron, and called 
often. Very soon she became aware of the fact that 
here was a man over whom she could never hope to 
dominate, and so, as she could not make him her slave, 
she became his. Her whole fiery nature went out to 
him, and she courted him with a wealth of passion which 
should have melted ice, but which from the Doctor 
earned but little more than a warm hand-clasp at parting. 
Finally, to her utter amazement, as she was about to 


despair of ever attracting him, he came to her and asked 
her to marry him. She consented joyously, and for 
twenty-four hours lived in rapture. 

Then her morning paper told of the death of Mabel 
Sloane, and connected the Doctor with the tragedy. She 
hurried to his office and heaped upon him vituperation 
and reproach, such as only could emanate from a heart 
capable of the deepest jealousy. He met the storm un 
flinchingly, and turned it away from himself by reminding 
her that he would probably be tried for murder, and that 
thus she would be rid of him. At once she changed her 
threats to entreaties. She begged him to fly with her. 
Her wealth would suffice, and in some other clime they 
could be safe, and she would forget, forgive, and love him. 

He appeared to yield, and bade her be ready to come 
to him at his bidding. She returned home, only to write 
him a long urgent letter, containing money ; the letter to 
which the Doctor had alluded during the conversation 
overheard by young Barnes. Then she had been sum 
moned and had gone to him. And now ? Now the 
longer she thought, the more certain did it appear to 
her, as the hours went by, that her lover was dead. And 
such a death ! She shuddered and closed her eyes. 
But she could not shut out the vision of her beloved 
Doctor standing bravely, with folded arms, as the flames 
crept upon him, surrounded him, and destroyed him. 
She could not shut out the sound of a last despairing 
cry wrung from his unwilling lips, as with a final up- 
flaring of the flame, the whole structure fell in. 


Maddened by her thoughts, at length she started up 
and turned towards her basin, intending to lave her 
fevered brow, when with a cry she sprang back, for 
there, in her room, with arms folded as in her vision, 
stood what she could but suppose to be the wraith of 
the dead. She shrieked, and fell forward in a swoon, to 
be caught in the arms of Dr. Medjora, who had admitted 
himself, unknown to the sleeping servants, by a latch 
key furnished to him by her, when she had begged him 
to join her in flight. 

When she recovered consciousness and realized that 
this was no spectre which had intruded upon her, she 
lavished upon him a wealth of kisses and caresses, which 
should have assured him of the intensity of her love and 
joy. She laughed and cried alternately, petted him and 
patted his cheeks, kissed him upon the hands, upon his 
face, his hair, his lips. She threw her arms around him 
and pressed him to her palpitating heart, the while 
crying : 

"Alive ! Thank heaven ! Alive ! Alive ! " 

" And did you think me dead, Cara mia ? " He 
folded his arms about her, touched by the evident 
genuineness of her feelings, and moved to some slight 

" Yes ! I thought so ! No ! I did not ! I knew 
you were too clever to die so. But then the flames ! 
They ate up the whole building, and I did not see how 
I could not imagine and I was afraid ! But now 
you are safe again ! You are with me, and I love 


you a million times more that I have mourned your 
death ! " 

" Come, come, dear heart ! I am alive and unhurt. 
I never was in danger. I would not kill myself, you 
know. I love my life too well ! And it was I who set 
the fire ! " 

" I thought that too at times ! You did it to baffle 
the police ! I see it all ! Oh, you are so clever ! Now 
they will think you dead, and we can go away together 
and live without fear ! Is it not so ?" 

" No, Cora ! As I told you this afternoon, I shall 
give myself up to the police ! " 

" No, no, no ! You must not ! You shall not ! 
What, risk your precious life again ? You will not, say 
that you will not ! If you love me, say it ! " 

She twined her arms about his neck, and held him 
tight as though he meditated going away at once. In 
the fear of this new danger, an agony welled up about 
her heart, and tears choked her utterance. But the 
Doctor remained impassive. He gently, but forcibly, 
disengaged himself from her embrace, and seating him 
self, drew her down to her knees beside him. Then he 
took her head in his hands, compelling her to look at 
him, and spoke to her in measured tones. 

" Cora ! Calm yourself ! You are growing hysteri 
cal. You know me too well, to suppose that I would 
swerve from a fixed purpose. I will not leave this city. 
As I have told you, all my hopes for the future bind me 
here. Elsewhere I should be as nothing, here I will 


grow into greatness, greatness which you shall share 
with me, if you be but brave ! " 

" But this trial ! Suppose suppose oh ! The horror 
of it ! " She dropped her head upon his lap and wept. 
He stroked her beautiful b^ck hair, which had become 
disengaged and now fell down her back, completely 
covering her shoulders. Presently when she was more 
quiet, only an occasional sob indicating that she was 
yet disturbed, he spoke to her, soothingly, caressingly, so 
that under the magic of his tones she gradually recovered 
her self-possession. 

" My little one, have no fear ! This trial is but an 
incident which scarcely gives me a troublesome thought. 
The worst is that I shall probably be in prison for some 
time awaiting trial. A meddlesome interference with 
the liberty of a man, which the law takes, offering no 
recompense when the accused is proven to have been 
innocent. This is one of the anomalies of a system 
which claims to administer equal rights and justice to 
all. I am accused of a crime. I am arrested and incar 
cerated for weeks, or months. I am tried and acquitted. 
I spend thousands of dollars in my defence. When I 
am released, I am in no way repaid for my loss of liberty 
and money. Indeed, innocent though I be, I am con 
gratulated by a host of sympathizers because I was not 
hanged. But I have had full justice. I have been 
accorded an expensive trial, with learned talent against 
me, etc., etc. The law is not to blame, nor those who 
enforce the laws. I am the victim of circumstances, 


that is all. Well, so be it. A stupid doctor has warned 
the authorities that a woman has died of morphine 
poisoning, despite the fact that a more competent man 
has signed a certificate that she died of a natural disease. 
So I have been accused, gnd will undoubtedly be in 
dicted and tried. But do you not see, that I have but 
to show that diphtheria caused death, and my innocence 
will be admitted ? " 

" Yes, but ! " 

" No ! There is no but ? Now show me to a room, 
where I may rest unobserved, until the day after to-mor 
row. We must not rob the public of its sensation too 
soon. Think of it, I read my own holocaust in an 
afternoon paper ! " 

Madam Corona shivered at this, not yet fully unmindful 
of her own recent forebodings. Obediently she took him 
to a room, and left him, the single comforting thought 
abiding with her, that she would have him all to herself 
during the whole of the following day. 

When Messrs. Dudley and Bliss learned from Barnes 
that he had followed Dr. Medjora, and had seen him go 
into the building which had been destroyed by fire, 
their hope that possibly the newspaper accounts were 
erroneous, was dissipated. 

" I knew it ! " began the junior member. " I knew 
that it was too good to be true. Think of that man s 
permitting himself to be burned to death just as we were 
about to get our chance. It s too exasperating." 

" It is annoying, Robert, of course," said Mr. Dudley. 


" Yet there is some comfort in the thought that he had 
the courtesy to pay us a retainer. That five hundred is 
most acceptable." 

" Oh ! certainly, the money will come handy, but what 
is five hundred dollars to an opportunity such as this 
would have been ? " Mr. Bliss was in a very bad 

" Robert," began his partner, speaking seriously, " you 
must not be so impatient. We are no worse off, at any 
rate, than before the man called upon us, so far as our 
profession goes, and we are better off than, we would be 
if he had not called at all. You should be grateful for 
the good received, and not cry after lost possibilities." 

" Oh ! well ! I suppose you are right ! " and throwing 
up both arms in a gesture of disgust, he went to his desk 
and began writing furiously. A long silence was main 
tained. These two men contrasted greatly. They had 
met each other during their law-school days, and were 
mutually attracted. Mr. Dudley was a hard student who 
had realized early in life that the best fruit comes to him 
who climbs, rather than to him who shakes the tree ; 
whilst that man who lies at ease, basking in the sunshine 
and waiting for ripe plums to fall into his mouth, is likely 
to go hungry. He was methodical, persistent, patient, 
energetic. He wasted no time. Even during his office 
hours, if there were nothing else to occupy him, he would 
continue his studies, delving into the calf-bound tomes 
as though determined to be a thorough master of their 


Mr. Bliss was his antithesis, and yet he had just those 
qualifications which made him complement his partner, 
so that he strengthened the firm. He was a brilliant, 
rather than a deep student. He read rapidly, and had 
a remarkable memory, so that he had a superficial com 
prehension of many things, rather than a positive knowl 
edge of a lesser number. He could be both rhetorical 
and oratorical, and, at a pinch, could blind a jury with a 
neat metaphor, where surer logic might have made a 
smaller impression, being less attractive. When address 
ing the jury, , he would become so earnest, that by sug 
gesting to his hearers that he himself was convinced of 
the truth of his utterances, he often swayed them to his 
wishes. He was quick, too, and keen, so that he event 
ually became justly celebrated for his cross-examina 
tions. But at this time his greatness had scarcely begun 
to bud, and so he sat like a schoolboy in the dumps, 
whilst his graver partner, though equally disappointed at 
the prospect of losing a good case, showed not so much 
of his annoyance. 

Presently Barnes entered with a telegram, which Mr. 
Bliss took, glad of anything to divert his thoughts. A 
moment after reading it he was greatly excited, and 
handing the message to his partner, exclaimed : 
" Mortimer, in heaven s name read that ! " 
Mr. Dudley took the despatch and read as follows : 
" Be at office District Attorney to-morrow ten o clock. 
I will take your advice and surrender. Medjora." 
" Well, Robert, what of it ? " 


" What of it ? Has the Western Union an office in the 
other world now, that dead men may send telegrams?" 

" Certainly not. Therefore this was sent before he 

" Before he died ! " This unthought-of possibility 
shattered the rising hopes of Mr. Bliss. He made 
one more effort, however, saying : 

" What is the date ? " 

" Why, the date is to-day ! " said Mr. Dudley, slowly. 
" Singular ! But it is an error, of course." 

" W T hy do you say of course ? " asked his partner, 
testily. " You seem to be anxious to lose this case. 
Now, how do you know that Medjora is dead after 
all ? " 

" Why Barnes saw him go into the building, and he 
could not have escaped, for the place was surrounded 
by the police." 

" There is no telling what that man can do. I verily 
believe that he is more than human, after the way in 
which he read my thoughts yesterday. I am going to 
probe this thing to the bottom." And before his partner 
could detain him, he had taken down his hat and 
rushed off. 

Two hours later, he returned discouraged. At the 
main office he had been referred to a branch, far up 
town. Arriving there he found that the operator who 
had sent the despatch had gone off duty. The original 
blank upon which the message had been written was un 
dated. So he learned practically nothing. 


" Never mind," said he, doggedly, after relating his 
ill-success, " I will go to the District-Attorney s office 
to-morrow, and wait for that man whether he come, or 
his ghost. I firmly believe that one or the other will 
do so." 

" I will go with you," said Mr. Dudley. " Only 
promise me to say nothing, unless our man turns up." 

At half-past nine on the next morning, both of the 
young lawyers were at the appointed place. Mr. Dudley 
sat down and read, or appeared to read, the paper. Mr. 
Bliss walked about impatiently, leaving the room occa 
sionally to go out into the hall and stand at the main 
doorway, looking into the street. 

A few moments before ten o clock the District At 
torney himself arrived and nodded pleasantly to the 
young men, with whom he was acquainted. 

" Waiting for me ? " he asked of Mr. Dudley. 

" No ! I am waiting for a client," was the quiet re 
joinder. Mr. Bliss started to speak, but a signal from 
his partner reminded him of his injunction. 

" Strange news in the morning paper," remarked the 
District Attorney, evidently full of his topic. That 
man Medjora, the fellow who poisoned his sweetheart 
you know, was burned to death trying to escape the 
detectives. Served him right, only it is a great case 
missed by us lawyers, eh ? " 

"Why do you say it served him right ?" asked Mr. 
Bliss, quickly. He still hoped that the Doctor would ap 
pear, and it occurred to him instantly, that he might 


learn something from the prosecution, thus taken un 
awares, supposing the case to be ended. 

" Oh, well ! " said the old lawyer, careful of speech 
by habit rather than because he saw any necessity for 
caution in the present instance ; " had the case come 
to trial, we had abundant evidence upon which to con 
vict, for Medjora certainly murdered the girl." 

" Your are mistaken ! " said a clear voice behind 
them, and as the three men turned and faced Dr. Med 
jora, the clock struck ten. Without waiting for them to 
recover from their surprise the Doctor continued : " Mr. 
District Attorney, I am Emanuel Medjora, the man 
whom you have just accused of a hideous crime ; the 
murder of a young girl, by making use of his knowledge 
of medicine. To my mind there can scarcely be a 
murder more fiendish, than where a physician, who has 
been taught the use of poisons for beneficent purposes, 
prostitutes his knowledge to compass the death of a 
human being ; especially of one who loved him." He 
uttered the last words with a touch of pathos which 
moved his hearers. Quickly recovering he continued : 
" Therefore, both as a man, and as a physician, I must 
challenge you to prove your slanderous statement. I 
have come here to-day, sir, to surrender myself to you 
as the law s representative, that I may show my willing 
ness to answer in person the charges which have been 
made against me. Messrs. Dudley & Bliss here, are 
my counsel." 

The District Attorney was very much astonished. 


Not only was he amazed to see the man alive, when he 
had been reported dead, but he was entirely unprepared 
to find this suspected criminal to be a man of cultured 
refinement, both of speech and of manner. He was 
thus, for the moment, more leniently inclined than he 
would have been, were he alone considering the mass of 
evidence which his office had already collected against 
the Doctor. Turning to him therefore he said : 

"So you are Dr. Medjora ! Well, sir, I am delighted 
to see you. That you have voluntarily surrendered 
yourself will certainly tell in your favor. You must 
pardon my hasty remark. But I thought that you were 
dead, and 

" And as you could not hurt the dead, you saw no 
harm in calling an unconvicted man a murderer. I 
see ! " There was a vein of satirical reproach beneath 
the polished manner of saying these words, which stung 
the old lawyer, and restored him at once to his wonted 

" Perhaps you are right, Doctor, and I ought not to 
have used the words about you, dead or alive. Of 
course, in this office the prisoner is only the accused. 
Never more than that, even in our thoughts. That is an 
imperative injunction which I place upon all of my as 
sistants. You see, gentlemen," he addressed them all 
collectively, with the purpose of bringing the Doctor to 
the conclusion that he was not specially thinking of him. 
Thus he prepared to spring a trap. " You see, the Dis 
trict Attorney is a prosecuting officer, but he should never 


persecute. It is his duty to represent and guard the 
liberties of the whole community. He should be as 
jealous of the rights of the accused, as of the accuser. 
More so, perhaps, for the prisoner stands to an extent 
alone, whilst the whole commonwealth is against him. 
And so, Dr. Medjora, if you are an innocent man, as you 
seem to be, it would be my most pleasing duty to free 
you from the stigma cast upon you. And should you 
come to trial, you must believe that the more forcible 
my arguments may be against you, the more do I 
espouse your cause, for the more thorough would be 
your acquittal if you obtained the verdict." Then hav 
ing, as he thought, led his man away from his defence, 
he asked quickly, " But tell me, why have you not sur 
rendered before ? " 

If he hoped to see the Doctor stammer and splutter, 
seeking for some plausible explanation, he was doomed 
to disappointment. Dr. Medjora replied at once, ignoring 
a signal from Mr. Bliss not to speak. 

" Mr. District Attorney, I will reply most candidly. 
Whilst, as you have just said, it is your duty to guard the 
interests of the accused as well as of the commonwealth, 
I regret to be compelled to say that such is not your 
reputation. People say, and I see now that they must 
be wrong," the Doctor bowed and smiled most politely, 

" but they do say that with you it is conviction at any 
cost. Thus even an innocent man might well hesitate 
to withstand the attacks of so eminent and skilful a 
jurist as yourself. Circumstantial evidence, whilst most 


reliable when thoroughly comprehended, may sometimes 
entrap the guiltless. So whilst my blood boiled in anger 
at the disgraceful charges which were made against me, 
my innate love of liberty, and my caution, bade me think 
first. Not satisfied with my own counsel, I deemed it 
wise to consult legal authority, which I did two days ago. 
Messrs. Dudley &: Bliss advised me to surrender, con 
fident that my innocence will be made so apparent that 
I do not materially jeopardize my life. In compliance 
with the understanding entered into two days ago, as 
these gentlemen will testify, I am at your service." 

" But why did you not come here two days ago ? " 

" Because I had some affairs of a private nature to 

"What about the incident of the fire reported in the 
papers ? " 

" Why, I see nothing in that but poor reportorial work. 
I did not choose to be arrested when I had decided 
voluntarily to surrender, as such a mischance would 
have injured my case. I therefore escaped during the 
confusion. That I was unobserved, and was reported 
to have perished, is not my fault certainly." 

"Very well, Doctor. You have not been indicted, 
and there is no warrant out for your arrest ; still, as 
you have surrendered, are you willing to be taken to 
prison ? " 

That is what I expect. I am entirely ready." 

" May I ask," said Mr. Dudley, addressing the Dis 
trict Attorney, " in view of the fact that our client has 


voluntarily surrendered himself, that his confinement in 
prison may be as brief as possible ? We claim that the 
Doctor is an innocent man, deprived of his liberty whilst 
awaiting trial, through the blundering accusations of a 
stupid physician. We venture to suggest that common 
justice demands that his trial should be as soon as 

" I shall arrange to have the trial at as early a date as 
is consistent with my duty to the commonwealth ! " 

" And to the accused ? " interjected Dr. Medjora, with 
a twinkle in his eye. 

" And to the accused, of course," said the old lawyer, 
with a smile, unwilling to be outdone. 

And so Dr. Emanuel Medjora was taken to prison to 
await his trial, and the public was treated to another 
sensation through the newspapers. 



IN spite of the promises of the District Attorney, 
several months passed before the great murder trial was 
commenced. The public at last were delighted to hear 
that their love for the harrowing details of a celebrated 
crime was to be satisfied. A few of the newspapers of 
the sensational stamp announced that they, and they 
only, would have the fullest accounts, illustrated with 
life-like portraiture of the accused, the lawyers, the 
judge, the jury, and the chief witnesses. This promise 
was so well fulfilled that on the opening day there 
appeared several alleged portraits of Dr. Medjora, which 
resembled him about as little as they did one another. 

Several days were consumed before the jury was 
impanelled, and then at length the prosecution opened 
its case, which was mainly in charge of Mr. George 
Munson, a newly appointed Assistant District Attorney, 
the very man of whom Mr. Dudley had spoken, when his 
partner had bewailed their unfortunate lot, because they 
had never been intrusted with a criminal case. 

Mr. Munson was a rising man. He had attracted 
attention, and was receiving a reward of merit by his 



promotion to the office which he now filled. It was 
hinted somewhere, that his appointment had been largely 
dependent upon his conduct of that murder case, during 
which he had shown a wonderful knowledge of chem- 
istry, for one not actually a chemist. And his having 
charge of this most important case, in which chemical 
expert testimony seemed likely to play an important 
part, substantiated the statement. 

He was well versed in law, was keen and quick at 
cross-examination, and merciless in probing the private 
lives of witnesses, when such action promised to aid his 
cause. He was not, however, a very brilliant speaker, 
but it was expected that the District Attorney would 
himself sum up. Thus the prosecution seemed to be in 
able hands. Opposed to them were Messrs. Dudley & 
Bliss, two young, unknown men, and people wondered 
why the Doctor, reputed to have wealth, had not engaged 
more prominent counsel. 

Mr. Munson s opening speech was not lengthy. He 
confined himself to a brief statement of his case, sum 
marizing in the most general fashion what he expected 
to prove ; in brief, that Mabel Sloane had died of 
morphine poisoning, and not of diphtheria, that the 
poison had been administered by Dr. Medjora, and that 
his object had been to rid himself of a woman who stood 
in his path, an obstacle to the advancement of his 
ambition. Mr. Munson thus avoided the mistake so 
often made by lawyers, where, following the temptation 
to make a speech, they tell so much that they weaken 


their cause, by affording their opponents time to prepare 
a more thorough defence. 

A few witnesses were called to establish in a general 
way the death of the girl, her place of residence, and 
such other facts as are essential in the preparation of a 
case, in order that no legal technicality may be neglected. 
But as it is manifest that I cannot, in the scope of this 
narration, give you a full account of the trial, I shall 
confine myself to compiling from the records just so 
much of the evidence as shall seem to me likely to 
attract your interest, and to be necessary to a full 
comprehension of the Doctor s position, and relation to 
this supposed crime. 

The first important witness, then, was Dr. Meredith, 
the physician who had aroused suspicion by reporting to 
the Board of Health that the girl had, in his opinion, 
died of opium narcosis. It was apparent, when he took 
the stand, that he was extremely nervous, and disliked 
exceedingly the position in which he found himself. 
Indeed it is a very trying predicament for a physician to 
be called upon to testify in a court of law, unless he is 
not only an expert in his profession, but also an expert 
witness. He finds himself confronted by an array of 
medical and legal experts, all conspiring to disprove his 
assertions, and to show how little his knowledge is worth. 
Generally, he has little to gain, whereas he may lose 
much in the estimation of his patrons by being made 
to appear ridiculous on the stand. 

After taking the oath, Dr. Meredith sat with his eyes 


upon the floor until Mr. Munson began to question him. 
Then he looked straight at the lawyer, as though upon 
him he relied for protection. 

"You attended Miss Mabel Sloane in her last illness, 
I believe ? " began Mr. Munson. 

" I did." 

" How were you called in to the case ? " 

" I was called in consultation by Dr. Fisher." 

" You were sent for by Dr. Fisher ! Then I am to 
understand that you and he were good friends ? " 

" The best of friends." 

" And are so still?" 

"I think so. Yes." 

" And Dr. Medjora. Did you know him before your 
connection with this case ? " 

" Only slightly." 

" Were you present when Miss Sloane died ? " 

" I was present for half an hour before she died." 

" Exactly! And you remained with her until she was 
actually dead ? " 

" Yes, sir. I saw her die." 

" Of what did she die ? " 

" I object ! " cried Mr. Bliss, springing to his feet and 
interrupting the prosecution for the first time. 

" State your objection," said the Recorder, tersely. 

" Your Honor," began Mr. Bliss, " I object to the form 
of the question. The whole point at issue is contained in 
it, and I contend that this witness is not qualified to an 
swer. If he were, the trial might end upon his doing so." 


" The witness is only expected to testify to the best 
of his belief," said the Recorder. 

"Very true, your Honor. I only wish it to go to the 
jury in the proper form. If they understand that this 
witness does not. know of what Miss Sloane died, but 
simply states what he thinks, I shall be perfectly satis 

"You may as well modify your question, Mr. Mun- 
son," said the Recorder. Thus Mr. Bliss scored a little 
victory, which at once convinced the older lawyers pres 
ent that, though young, he would prove to be shrewd to 
grasp the smallest advantage. His object had evidently 
been to belittle the value of the answer, before it was 
made, by thus calling attention so prominently to the 
fact that Dr. Meredith could not know positively what 
he was about to charge. 

" In your opinion, what caused the death of Miss 
Sloane ? " This was the new question formulated to 
meet the objection raised. 

" She died of morphine poisoning !" replied Dr. Mere 

"Yoir mean you think she died of morphine poison 
ing?" interjected Mr. Bliss. 

" Kindly wait until you get the witness before you be 
gin your cross-examination ! " said Mr. Munson, with a 
touch of asperity. Mr. Bliss merely smiled and kept silent, 
satisfied that he had produced his effect upon the jury. 

"Will you state why you conclude that Miss Sloane 
died of morphine poisoning?" continued Mr. Munson. 


" I observed all the characteristic symptoms of mor 
phine narcosis prior to her death, and the nature of the 
death itself was consistent with my theory." 

" Please explain what the symptoms of morphine 
poisoning are ? " 

" Cold sweat, slow pulse, stertorous breathing, a gradu 
ally deepening coma, contracted pupils, which, however, 
slowly dilate at the approach of death, which is caused 
by a paralysis of the respiratory centres." 

" Did you observe any of these symptoms in Miss 
Sloane ?" 

"Yes. Practically all of them." 

" And would these same symptoms occur in any other 
form of death, except from morphine poisoning ? " 

" They would not. Of course they do not apply to 
morphine only. They are generally diagnostic of opium 

" But morphine is a form of opium, is it not ? " 

" Yes. It is one of the alkaloids." 

" Now, Doctor, one more question. You have testified 
that you attended this girl in her last illness ; as a physi 
cian you are familiar with death from diphtheria; you have 
stated what are the symptoms of morphine, or opium poi 
soning, and that you observed them in this case; further, 
that an identical set of symptoms would not occur in any 
other disease known to you ; now, from these facts, what 
would you say caused the death of Miss Mabel Sloane ?" 

" I should say that she died of a poisonous dose of 
some form of opium, probably morphine." 


" You may take the witness," said Mr. Munson, as 
he sat down. Mr. Bliss spoke a word to Doctor Med- 
jora, alid then holding a few slips of paper, upon which 
were notes, mainly suggestions which had been written 
by the prisoner himself, and passed to his counsel un- 
perceived by the majority of those present, he faced the 
witness, whose eyes at once sought the floor. 

" Doctor," began Mr. Bliss, " you have stated that you 
are only slightly acquainted with Dr. Medjora. Is that 
true ?" 

" I said that I was only slightly acquainted with him 
prior to my being called to attend Miss Sloane. Of 
course I know him better now." 

" But before the time which you specify, you did not 
know him ? " 

" Not intimately." 

" Oh ! Not intimately ? Then you did know him ? 
Now is it not a fact that you and Dr. Medjora were 
enemies ? " 

" I object ! " exclaimed Mr. Munson. 

" I wish to show, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, " that 
this witness has harbored a personal spite against our 
client, and that because of that, his mind was not in a 
condition to evolve an unprejudiced opinion about the 
illness of Miss Sloane." 

" I do not think that is at all competent, your Honor," 
said Mr. Munson. " The witness has testified to facts, 
and even if there were personal feeling, that would not 
alter facts." 


"No, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, quickly, "facts are 
immutable. But a prejudiced mind is as an eye that 
looks through a colored glass. All that is observed is 
distorted by the mental state." 

" The witness may answer," said the Recorder. 

At the request of Mr. Bliss the stenographer read the 
question aloud, and the witness replied. 

" Dr. Medjora and myself were not enemies. Cer 
tainly not ! " 

" Had you not had a controversy with him upon a 
professional point ? " 

" I had an argument with him, in a debate, just as 
occurs in all debates." 

" Precisely ! But was not this argument, as you term 
it, a discussion which followed a paper which you had 
read, and in that argument did not Dr. Medjora prove 
that the whole treatment outlined by you was erroneous, 
unscientific, and unsound ? " 

" He did not prove it ; he claimed something of the 
kind ! " 

" You say he did not prove it. As a result of his 
argument, was not your paper refused publication by a. 
leading medical journal?" 

" I did not offer it for publication." 

" I think this is all incompetent, your Honor," said 
Mr. Munson. 

" You may go on," said the Recorder, nodding to Mr. 

" Is it not customary for papers read before your 


societies to become the property of the society, and are 
they not sent by the society to the journal in ques 
tion ? " 

" Yes, I believe so." 

" Was not your paper sent to the journal as usual, and 
was it not rejected by the journal ? " 

" I do not know that it was." 

" Well, has your paper been published anywhere ? " 


" You said that you were present when Miss Sloane 
died. Now how did that happen. Were you sent 
for ? " 

" No. I had seen the patient with Dr. Fisher during 
the day, and she seemed to be improving, so much so 
that Dr. Fisher decided that we need not see her until 
the next morning. Later I thought this a little unsafe, 
and so I called during the evening." 

" Oh ! Dr. Fisher thought she was well enough, but 
you did not. Was that why you called at night ? " 

The witness bit his lip with anger at having made this 

. " I live near, and I thought it would do no harm to 

" Now when you called, you have stated that you 
were with her for half an hour before she died. Did she 
die a half hour after you entered her room ? " 

" In about half an hour." 

" How soon after you saw her, did you suspect that 
she had been poisoned ? " 


" Immediately." 

" Oh ! Immediately ! Then of course you made 
some effort to save her life, did you not ? You used 
some antidotes ? " 

" It was difficult. At first of course there was merely 
a suspicion in my mind. I tried to have her drink some 
strong coffee, but deglutition was almost impossible. 
This is another evidence of the poison." 

" Now, Doctor, be careful. You say that impaired 
deglutition was due to poisoning. But do you not know 
that deglutition is most difficult in cases of diphtheria ? " 

" The patient swallowed very well in the afternoon." 

" But if she had grown worse, if the false membrane 
had increased, would she not have had greater difficulty 
in swallowing ? " 

"Yes, but " 

" Never mind the buts. Now, then, when you found 
that she was too ill to swallow, what else did you do ? " 

" I injected atropine, and sent for Dr. Fisher." 

" Oh ! Then you did send for Dr. Fisher ? " 

<( Yes." 

" Did he arrive before she died ? " 

" Yes. About five minutes." 

" Did you suggest to him that the patient was dying 
of poison ? " 

" I did, but he would not agree with me. Therefore 
I coulorot do anything more, as he was the physician 
in charge." 

" Is Dr. Fisher a skilful man ? " 



" As skilful as you are yourself ?" 

This was a hard question, but with Dr. Fisher present, 
only one answer was possible. 

"Certainly, but we are all liable to make a mistake." 

This was a bad effort to help his cause, for Mr. Bliss 
quickly interposed. 

" Even you are liable to make a mistake, eh ? " 

" Of course, but in this instance I saw more of the 
case than Dr. Fisher did." 

" Still, Dr. Fisher was present for several minutes 
before this girl died, and though you suggested that she 
had been poisoned, and proposed taking some action to 
save her from the poison, he disagreed with you so en 
tirely that he made no such effort. Is that right ? " 

" Well, there was very little that he could have done 
anyway. It was too late. The drug had gone too far 
for the stomach-pump to be efficacious ; the atropine had 
had no beneficial result, we had no means of applying a 
magnetic battery, and no time to get one. Artificial 
respiration was what I proposed, whilst waiting for a 
battery, but Dr. Fisher thought it a useless experiment, 
in presence of the diphtheria. He offered to perform 
tracheotomy, but as I considered that the respiratory 
centres had been paralyzed by morphine, I could see no 
advantage in that." 

" So whilst you two doctors argued, the patient died ? " 

" It was too late for us to save her life. The coma 
was too deep. It was a hopeless case." 


" Now, then, Doctor, let us come to those symptoms. 
You enumerated a list, and claimed that you observed 
them all. The first is cold sweat. Did you notice that 
specially ? " 

" The cold sweat was present, but not very marked. 
It would be less so with morphine than with other forms 
of opium." 

" Oh ! So there was not much sweat after all ? Now 
was there more than would be expected on a warm 
night such as that was ?" 

" I think so. It is only valuable as a diagnostic sign 
in conjunction with the other symptoms." 

" Next we have slow pulse. This was a half hour 
before death. Does not the pulse become slow in many 
cases just before death ? " 


" Very good. Not much sweat, and slow pulse does 
not amount to anything. What next ? Oh ! stertorous 
breathing. That is not uncommon in diphtheria, is it, 
Doctor ? " 


" Just so. Now then, gradually deepening coma. 
That is to say, a slow sinking into unconsciousness. Or 
I might say, dying slowly. Is a slow death of this kind 
only possible where opium poisoning has occurred ? " 


" Lastly we have the contracted pupils. That is your 
best diagnostic symptom, is it not, Doctor ? " 

" Yes. It is a plain indication of opium." 


" Now then, Doctor, admitting that the contracted 
pupils are a sign of morphine, how did you determine, 
in that darkened room, that there was a contraction of 
the pupils ? " 

" I passed a candle before her eyes, and they gave no 
response, whilst the pupils were contracted minutely." 

"How small?" 

" As small as a pin s point." 

" Now then, Doctor, you answered a lengthy question 
for Mr. Munson and you told us that these symptoms, 
that is, all of them occurring together, would not be 
found in any other condition than that which in your 
opinion would be the result of opium poisoning. 
Please listen to this question and give me an answer. 
Suppose that a patient were suffering with diphtheria, 
and were about to die of that disease, and that some time 
before she died morphine were administered in a moder 
ate, medicinal dose, would it not be possible to have the 
contracted pupils such as you have described as a result 
of the morphine, whilst death were really caused by 
diphtheria ? " 

" I object ! "cried Mr. Munson, quick to see the inge 
nuity of this question, which if answered affirmatively by 
the witness would leave the inference that Miss Sloane 
might have taken a non-poisonous dose of morphine 
and still have died of diphtheria. 

The question seems to me to be a proper one," said 
the Recorder. 

" Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " this witness is 


here to testify to facts. He is not here as an expert. 
That is a hypothetical question and does not relate to 
the facts in this case." 

" It is no more a hypothetical question than one which 
the prosecution asked, your Honor. He asked if the 
described symptoms could occur in any other disease. 
The witness was allowed to answer that." 

" Yes," said the Recorder, " but you made no objec 
tion. Had you done so, and claimed that this witness 
could not give expert testimony, I would perhaps have 
sustained you. I think you may leave your question 
until the experts are called, Mr. Bliss." 

" Oh ! Very well, your Honor. I should prefer to 
have an expert opinion upon it. If this witness is not 
an expert, of course his opinion would be of no value to 

This was a rather neat manoeuvre, tending to further 
discredit the witness, without placing himself in opposi 
tion to the Judge, an important point always. Mr. Bliss 
then yielded the witness, and the Assistant District Attor 
ney asked a few more questions in re-examination, but 
they were mainly intended to re-affirm the previous testi 
mony, and so obtain a last impression upon the minds of 
the jury. Nothing was brought out which would add to 
what has already been narrated. Court then adjourned 
for the day. 



ON the following day the newspaper accounts of the 
trial, and especially of the sharp cross-examination of 
Dr. Meredith, attracted a tremendous crowd, which 
assailed the doors of the court-room long before the 
hour for opening. Every conceivable excuse to gain 
admission was offered. Men claimed to be personal 
friends of the prisoner, and women brought him flowers. 
Some essayed force, others resorted to entreaty, whilst 
not a few relied upon strategy, appearing with law books 
.under their arms, and following in the wake of counsel. 
;Thus when the Recorder finally entered, and proceed 
ings were begun, every available seat, and all standing 
room was fully occupied by the throng, which, without 
any real personal interest in the case, yet was attracted 
through that curious love of the sensational, and of the 
criminal, which actuates the majority of mankind to-day. 

The first witness was called promptly. This was 
Dr. McDougal, the Coroner s physician, to whom had 
been intrusted the autopsy. He gave a full account of 
the operations performed by himself and his assistants 
upon the body of the deceased. He described in detail 



each step of his work, and exhibited a thoroughness and 
caution which more than anything demonstrated that he 
was the expert pathologist which the prosecution claimed 
him to be. Indeed, it would be well in great trials, if 
those having charge of autopsies would emulate the 
example of Dr. McDougal. He explained how, before 
opening the body, it had been thoroughly washed in 
sterilized water, and placed upon a marble slab, which 
had been scrubbed clean and then bathed in a germici- 
dal solution. Next new glass cans, absolutely clean, 
had been at hand, in which the various organs 
were placed as they were removed from the body, after 
which they were hermetically sealed, and stamped with 
the date, so that when passed into the hands of the 
analytical chemist, that gentleman might feel assured 
that he received the identical parts, and that nothing of 
an extraneous nature, poisonous or otherwise, had been 
mixed with them. It was evident that this careful man 
made a deep impression upon the jury, and that his 
statements would have weight with them, not alone as 
to his own evidence, but by strengthening the chemical 
report, since he had made it apparently assured that if 
poison had been found, it had not reached the body 
after death. Finally, Mr. Munson brought his witness 
to the point of special interest. 

" From what you observed, Doctor," said he, " are you 
prepared to assign a cause of death ? " 

" I should conclude that she died of coma ! " was the 


" Can you state whether this coma had been produced 
by a poisonous dose of morphine ? " 

" I should say that it was very probable that opium in 
some form had been exhibited, in a poisonous dose." 

" State specifically why you have adopted that 
opinion ! " 

" I found the brain wet, the convolutions flattened ; 
the lungs, heart, liver, and spleen, distended and 
engorged with dark fluid blood. The vessels of the 
cerebro-spinal axis were also engorged with black blood, 
and the capillaries of the brain, upon incision, vented 
the same fluid." 

" And these signs are indicative of opium poison 
ing ?" 

" They are the only evidences of opium poisoning that 
can be discovered by an autopsy. Of course a chemical 
analysis, if it should show the presence of the drug, 
would go very far to corroborate this presumption." 

" Then if the chemical analysis shows the actual 
presence of opium, would you say that this patient died 
of opium poisoning ? " 

" I would ! " 

" Doctor, it has been suggested that she died of 
diphtheria. What is your opinion of that ?" 

" I found evidences in the throat and adjacent parts, 
that the woman had had diphtheria, but, from the total 
absence of false membrane, I should say that she was 
well on the way to a recovery from that disease, at the 
time of her death." 


" Then from these facts do you think that she died of 
opium poisoning ? " 

" I think it most probable, judging by what I found 
after death." 

" It has been testified by the physician in charge of 
the case, that the symptoms of morphine poisoning were 
sufficiently marked for him to deem antidotes necessary 
prior to death. Would not that corroborate your own 
conclusions ? " 

" If correct, it would substantiate my opinion." 

Considering the very positive and damaging nature of 
this evidence, it was thought that the cross-examination 
would be very exhaustive. To the surprise of all, Mr. 
Bliss asked only a few questions. 

" Dr. McDougal," said he, " did you examine the 
kidneys ? " 

"I did." 

" In what condition did you find them to be ? " 

" They were much shrunken, and smooth. Non- 

" Is that a normal condition ? " 

" No, sir. It is a morbid condition." 

" Morbid ? That is diseased. Then this woman had 
some kidney disease ? Do I so understand you ?" 

" Unquestionably ! " 

" Can you state what disease existed ? " 

" I should say Bright s disease." 

" Might she not have died of this ?" 

" No. There was evidence of the existence of 


Bright s disease, but not sufficient to adjudge it a cause 
of death." 

" But you are certain that she had Bright s disease ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" That is all." 

Professor Orton then took the stand for the prosecu 
tion. Under the questioning of Mr. Munson, he de 
scribed himself to be an expert analytical chemist and 
toxicologist. He said that he was a lecturing professor 
connected with the University Medical College, and 
clinical chemist for two other schools, besides being 
president of several societies, and member or honorary 
member in a dozen others. Then, proceeding to a de 
scription of his work on this particular case, he ex 
plained in almost tedious detail his methods of searching 
for morphine in the organs taken from the body of the 
deceased. Some of these tests he repeated in the pres 
ence of the court, showing how, by the reaction of his 
testing agents upon the matter under examination, the 
presence or absence of morphine could be detected. 
Having thus paved the way towards the special evidence 
which he was expected to give, his examination was 
continued as follows : 

" Now then, Professor," said Mr. Munson, " you have 
proven to us very clearly that you can detect the pres 
ence of morphine in the tissues. Please state whether 
you examined the organs of the deceased, and with what 
result ? " 

" I made a most thorough examination and I found. 


morphine present, especially in the stomach and in the 

" Did you find it in poisonous quantities? " 

" The actual quantity which I found, would not have 
been a lethal dose, but such a dose must have been ad 
ministered for me to have found as much as I did find." 

" Well, from what you did find, can you state what 
quantity must have been administered?" 

" I cannot state positively, but I should guess 

" No ! No ! I object ! " cried Mr. Bliss, jumping up. 
" You are here to give expert testimony. We do not 
want any guess-work ! " 

" Professor," said the Recorder, " can you not state 
what was the minimum quantity which must have been 
administered, judged by what you found ? " 

" It is difficult, your Honor. The drug acts variably 
upon different individuals. Then again, much would 
depend upon the length of time which elapsed between 
the administration, and the death of the individual." 

" Then in this case your opinion would be a mere 
speculation and not competent," said the Recorder, and 
Mr. Bliss seated himself, satisfied that he had scored an 
other point. But he was soon on his feet again, for Mr. 
Munson would not yield so easily. 

" Professor," said he, " you said in reply to his Honor, 
that you could not answer without knowing how long 
before death the drug had been administered. Now 
with that knowledge would you be able to give us a 
definite answer ? " 


" A definite answer ? Yes ! But not an exact one. The 
drug is absorbed more rapidly in some, than in others, 
so that one person might take two or three times as 
much as another, and I would find the same residuum. 
But I could tell you what was the minimum dose that 
must have been administered." 

" Well, then, supposing that the drug had been admin 
istered about three hours before death, how large must 
the dose have been, or what was the minimum quantity 
that could have been given, judging by what you 
found ? " 

" I must object to that, your Honor ! " said Mr. Bliss. 

" Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " this is a hypotheti 
cal question, and perfectly competent." 

" It is a hypothetical question, your Honor," replied 
Mr. Bliss, " but it contains a hypothesis which is not 
based upon the evidence in this case. There has been 
absolutely no testimony to show that morphine was ad 
ministered to this woman about three hours before 

" We have a witness who will testify to that later," 
replied Mr. Munson, and this announcement created no 
little sensation, for here was promised some direct evi 

" Upon the understanding," said the Recorder, " that 
you will produce a witness who will testify that morphine 
was administered three hours before death, I will admit 
your question." 

" We take an exception ! " said Mr. Bliss, and sat down. 


" Now please answer the question," said Mr. Munson, 
addressing the witness. 

" Under the hypothesis presented I should say that the 
minimum dose must have been three grains." 

" That is to say, she must have had three grains, or 
more ? " 

" Yes, sir ; three grains or more." 

" What is a medicinal dose ? " 

" From a thirty-second of a grain to half a grain, 
though the latter would be unusual." 

" Unusually large you mean ? " 

" Yes. It would be rarely given." 

" Then would you say that three grains would be a 
lethal dose ? " 

" It would most probably prove fatal. One sixth of a 
grain has been known to produce death." 

" One sixth of a grain has proven fatal, and, from 
what you found, you conclude that three grains had been 
given to this woman ? " 

" Yes, provided your hypothesis as to the time of ad 
ministration is correct." 

" Oh, we will prove the hypothesis." 

" Then I should say that three grains had been 

" Three grains or more ? " 

" Yes, three grains or more." 

" You may take the witness," said the Assistant Dis 
trict Attorney, and Mr. Bliss at once began his cross- 


" Professor, as an expert toxicologist now, leaving 
analytical chemistry for awhile, you are familiar with the 
action of drugs in the human body during life, are you 
not ? " 

" Of poisonous drugs. Yes, sir." 

" Of poisonous drugs of course. Of opium and its 
alkaloids especially, is what I mean ? " 

" Yes, sir. I have studied them minutely." 

" Now then in regard to morphine. You said to his 
Honor, awhile ago, that this drug acts variably upon 
different individuals. Is it not true that it also acts 
differently upon the same individual at various 
times ? " 

" Yes, sir, that is true." 

" And is its action affected by disease ? " 

" It might be ! " 

" Supposing that the drug were administered con 
tinuously, might it not occur, that instead of being ab 
sorbed, the morphine would be retained, stored up as it 
were, so that the quantity would accumulate ? " 

" Yes, the records contain reports of such cases." 

" Well, now, suppose that a patient had some kidney 
trouble, such as Bright s disease, would not morphine 
be retained in this way ? " 

" I have never seen such a case." 

" Never seen it ! But you have read, or heard of such 
cases ? " 

" Yes, sir. That is the claim made by some authori 


" By good authorities ? " 

"Yes. Good authorities." 

" And these good authorities claim that morphine, 
administered to one who has Bright s disease, might 
accumulate until a poisonous dose were present ? " 

" Yes, sir ! " 

Thus was made plain the object of the line of cross- 
examination that had been followed with Dr. McDougal. 
1 1 became evident that the defence meant to claim that 
if Mabel Sloane died from morphine it was because it 
had been stored up in her system, in consequence of the 
diseased kidneys. Satisfied with this admission from 
the prosecution s expert, Mr. Bliss yielded the witness, 
and he was re-examined by Mr. Munson. 

" Professor," said he, " supposing that in the case of 
this girl, morphine had been retained in the system, sud 
denly destroying life because a poisonous quantity had 
been thus accumulated, would you expect to find it, 
after death, in the stomach ? " 

" No, sir, I would not." 

" How long a time would be required to eliminate it 
from that organ ? " 

" Ordinarily it should be eliminated from the system 
entirely within forty-eight hours. Certainly after that 
length of time, it should not appear in the stomach." 

" And yet in this case you found morphine in the 
stomach ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" So that to be there, it must have been administered 


within two days, and could not have been there as a 
result of accumulation beyond that time ? " 

" I should say that the presence in the stomach proves 
that the administration must have occurred within two 

Upon re-cross Mr. Bliss asked a few questions. 

" On your original examination, Professor, you said 
that you found morphine in the intestines and in the 
stomach. Where did you find the greater quantity ? " 

" In the intestines ! " 

" If, because of kidney disease, morphine were re 
tained in the system, where would you look for it after 
death ? " 

" In the intestines." 

" That is all." 

The next witness was a young woman. Her examina 
tion proceeded as follows, after she had given her name 
and occupation. 

" Now, Miss Conlin, you say you were engaged in 
your capacity of professional nurse, to care for Miss 
Sloan e. Were you on duty on the day of her death ? " 

" Yes, sir. Day and night." 

" You were present when the doctors called in the 
afternoon then. What did they say of her condition ? " 

" That she was very much better. The membrane 
had entirely disappeared. Dr. Fisher thought she 
would be up in a few days." 

" Did Dr. Medjora call during the afternoon, or even 
ing ?" 


" Yes, sir. He called about five o clock." 

" Did you remain with your patient throughout his 
visit ? " 

" No, sir. Dr. Medjora said that he would stay until 
nine o clock, and that I might go out for some fresh 

" Did you do so ? " 

" Yes, sir. I was glad to go." 

" Did you not consider it wrong to leave your 
patient ? " 

" Why, no, sir. She was getting better, and besides, 
Dr. Medjora being a physician could care for her as 
well as I could." 

" When you went out did you state when you would 
return ? " 

" Yes. I said I would be back at nine o clock." 

" As a matter of fact, when did you return ? " 

" About half-past eight. It was eight o clock when I 
left my home." 

" Did you go at once to your patient s room ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

"And enter it?" 

"Yes, sir." 

" What did you see when you entered ? " 

" I saw Dr. Medjora bending over Miss Sloane, giv 
ing her a hypodermic injection of morphine ! " 

" How could you tell it was morphine ? " 

" He washed out the syringe in a glass of water, before 
he put it back in his case. I tasted the water after- 


wards, and distinguished the morphine in that way. Be 
sides, I found several morphine tablets in the bed." 

" What did you do with these tablets ? " 

" At first I placed them on the mantel. Afterwards, 
when Dr. Meredith said that Miss Sloane was dying from 
morphine, I put them in a phial and slipped that into my 

" Was that the same phial which you brought to me ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" Is this it ? " He handed up a phial containing four 
pellets, which was admitted in evidence, and identified 
by Miss Conlin. 

" Did you tell Dr. Medjora that you had seen him 
administer the morphine ? " 

" No, sir. At the time I thought it must be all right, 
as he was her friend, and a physician." 

" Did he know that you had seen him ? " 

" No, sir. I think not." 

The witness was then given to Mr. Bliss for cross- 

" Miss Conlin," he began, " who engaged you to at 
tend Miss Sloane ? " 

" Dr. Medjora." 

" What did he say to you at that time? " 

" That a very dear friend of his was ill, and that he 
would pay me well for skilful services." 

" Did he pay you ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" During her illness what was the general behavior of 


Dr. Medjora towards her. That is, was he kind, or was 
he indifferent ?" 

" Oh ! very kind. It was plain that he was in love 
with her." 

" I move, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " that the 
latter part of that answer be stricken out, as incompetent." 

" The motion is granted," said the Recorder. 

" You said that the Doctor was always kind," said Mr. 
Bliss, resuming. " So much so that you would not have 
suspected that he wished her any harm, would you ? " 

" I object ! " said Mr. Munson. 

" Objection sustained ! " said the Recorder. 

" Now, then, we will come down to the administration 
of the hypodermic," said Mr. Bliss. " You testified that 
you saw Dr. Medjora administer the hypodermic. Are 
we to understand that you saw Dr. Medjora dissolve the 
tablets, fill the syringe, push the needle under the skin, 
press the piston so that the contents were discharged, 
and then remove the instrument ? " 

" No, sir. I did not see all that." 

" Well, what did you see ? " 

" I saw him taking the syringe out of Miss Sloane s 
arm. Then he cleaned it and put it in his pocket, after 
putting it in a case." 

" Oh ! You did not see him push the syringe in, you 
only saw him take it out. Then how do you know that 
he did make the injection, if one was made at all ? " 

" Why, he must have. I saw him take out the syringe, 
and there was no one else who could have done it." 


" Then you saw him put the syringe in a case, and 
place the case in his pocket, I think you said ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" What sort of case was it ? " 

" A metal case ! " 

" Was it a case like this ? " Mr. Bliss handed her an 
aluminum hypodermic case, which she examined, and 
then said : 

" It looked like this." The case was then marked as 
an exhibit for the defence. 

" In what position was Miss Sloane when you saw the 
Doctor leaning over her ? " 

" She was lying across the bed, with her head in a 
pillow. She was crying softly ! " 

" I think you said that this occurred at half-past eight 
o clock ? " 

"Yes, sir. About that time." 

" At what hour did Miss Sloane die ? " 

" At eleven thirty ! " 

" That is to say, three hours after you supposed that 
you saw Dr. Medjora make the injection." 

" Yes, sir ! " 

" Did you leave the room again during that time ? " 

" No, sir." 

" Not even to get the coffee which Dr. Meredith had 
ordered ? " 

" No, sir. I made that on the gas-stove in the 

" Well, then, during that last three hours did you, or 


any one else, in your presence, inject, or administer mor 
phine in any form to Miss Sloane ? " 

" No, sir ; positively not." 

" Such a thing could not have occurred without your 
knowledge?" i 

" No, sir." 

" Now, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, " I would like to 
ask the prosecution whether this is the only witness upon 
whom they depend to prove the hypothesis that mor 
phine was administered within three hours prior to the 
death of Miss Sloane?" 

" That is our evidence on that point," replied Mr. 

" Then, if it please the court, I move that all that tes 
timony of Professor Orton s following and dependent 
upon the hypothetical question, shall be stricken from 
the records." 

" State your grounds," said the Recorder. 

" Your Honor admitted the question upon the express 
understanding, that the hypothesis that morphine had 
been administered within the specified time should be 
proven. The prosecution s own witness tells us that no 
such administration occurred during the last three 
hours of the life of the deceased. The proposition 
then hinges upon what this witness claims to have seen 
as she entered the room. She admits that she only 
saw Dr. Medjora remove a syringe. She did not see 
him insert it, and she could not possibly know what 
the contents of that syringe were." 


" I think," said the Recorder, " that the question 
whether or not her testimony shows that Dr. Medjora 
administered a hypodermic of morphine is a question 
for the jury. The evidence may stand." 

" We take exception," said Mr. Bliss. After a few 
moments consultation with Mr. Dudley he said to 
the witness : " That is all," and she was allowed to 
leave the stand. This ended the day s proceedings. 



THE first witness called, on the resumption of the 
trial, was a druggist, named Newton, who qualified as an 
expert pharmacist and chemist. He examined the pel 
lets contained in the bottle identified by the professional 
nurse as the one which she had given to Mr. Munson. 
These he dissolved in water, and then submitted to 
chemical tests, from the results of which he pronounced 
them to be morphine. He testified that he recognized 
them as the usual pellets carried by physicians for hypo 
dermic use. He was not cross-examined. 

The next witness was Prof. Hawley, an expert pathol 
ogist. He swore that he had assisted at the autopsy, and 
in the main substantiated the evidence of Dr. McDougal, 
the Coroner s physician, agreeing with him, that from 
the physical appearances, the probable cause of death 
had been morphine poisoning. He was asked the hypo 
thetical question and answered as did the other witness, 
that at least three grains must have been administered. 
Up to this point the evidence was merely cumulative, 
but Mr. Munson then essayed another line of inquiry. 

" Professor," said he, " from your examination of 


this body can you tell us whether or not the deceased 
had been a mother ? " 

" I object ! " cried Mr. Bliss springing to his feet, 
with more energy than he had yet exhibited. It was 
plain that though heretofore his objections to the 
admission of evidence may have been suggested rather 
by his desire to fully protect his client, than because 
he feared the testimony, this time he fought to exclude 
this evidence because of some vital interest, as though, 
indeed, this point having been foreshadowed in the 
early newspaper accounts, he had been fully instructed 
by Dr. Medjora. This became the more apparent, 
when Mr. Dudley himself took part in the argument, 
for the first time bringing the weight of his legal knowl 
edge to bear upon the case publicly. For when the 
court asked for a cause of objection, it was Mr. 
Dudley who replied. 

" May it please your Honor," said he, " it seems to 
us, that the fact which counsel here endeavors to intro 
duce, is entirely irrelevant. Whether or not Miss Sloane 
was a mother, can have no possible connection with our 
client s responsibility for the crime of which he is 
accused. It is no more against the law to kill a mother, 
than to slay any other woman. We hope that your 
Honor will see the advisability of shielding the name 
of the dead from any such imputation as the guesses of 
even this celebrated expert might cast upon her." 

" I really cannot see the bearing of this evidence," 
said the Recorder, addressing Mr. Munson. 


"If it please your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " we 
wish to show that this girl was an unmarried woman/ 
who nevertheless bore a child to the prisoner. Further, 
we will show that Miss Sloane was a poor girl, seeking 
to earn her living as a music teacher. Now the accused 
suddenly finds the opportunity to marry a wealthy 
woman, and the poor musician, with her claim upon him 
as the father of her child, becomes an obstacle in his 
path. Thus, your Honor, we supply a motive for this 

" But, your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, " there has not 
been a particle of evidence to prove any of these asser 
tions, so glibly put for the benefit of the jury, and there 
fore we must contend that this evidence is entirely 

" As tending to explain the motive, I must rule that 
counsel may examine fully into the relations that 
existed between the prisoner and the deceased," said the 

" But," persisted Mr. Dudley, " even granting that 
this expert can say whether a woman has borne a child, 
which is a question of grave uncertainty, assuredly it 
cannot be claimed that he can testify as to the father of 
the child. Therefore he can throw no light whatever 
upon the relation which existed between the. dead girl 
and our client." 

" The question is admitted. The witness may an 
swer ! " replied the Recorder, upon which the defence 
entered an exception. The expert then answered : 


" It was positively discernible that the deceased had 
been a mother." 

" Can you state how long ago ? " 

" It is understood, your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, 
" that we take exception to this whole line of examina 
tion ? " To this the Recorder nodded in assent, and 
the witness replied : 

" Not within a year, I should say." 

The witness was then yielded to the defence, but 
the cross-examination was confined entirely to the con 
dition of the kidneys, thus making the prosecution s 
expert once more add to the evidence in favor of the 
defence, by admitting the diseased condition of organs, 
which it was claimed would materially affect the action 
of morphine in the system. 

Next followed several witnesses, all of them boarders 
in the house where the deceased had dwelt. The object 
of their testimony was to show that the deceased passed 
in the house as a single woman, and that Dr. Medjora 
appeared in the light of an accepted suitor. They all 
denied that the girl had ever claimed that she was mar 
ried, or that she had ever worn a wedding-ring. Under 
cross-examination they all admitted that they had never 
heard of, nor seen a child. It transpired that she had 
lived in the house a little more than a year, and that Dr. 
Medjora had been a visitor for less than half of that period. 

Mrs. Sloane, the mother of the dead girl, then took 
the stand. She was dressed in deep mourning, and 
wept frequently. She testified that her daughter had al- 


ways been of an unruly, headstrong disposition, and fond 
of enjoying herself. That she had been disinclined to 
work at home, and appeared to feel herself better than 
her own kith and kin. She had met Dr. Medjora at 
some musical party several years before, and the Doctor 
had become a constant visitor. " But I never liked the 
man. Somehow I knew that he was a cruel, dangerous 
man for a poor girl, with high ideas, like my Mabel." 
These remarks offered voluntarily, and delivered so 
rapidly that she could not be prevented from having her 
say, were objected to, and promptly ruled out, the 
Recorder agreeing with Mr. Dudley, that personal im 
pressions could not be received in evidence against a 
man s character. Coming down to a later period, she 
explained that she and her daughter had " had some 
words about her going with that man," and the girl had 
suddenly left home. " Of course I knew she had been 
lured away by that black-hearted villain," ejaculated 
the witness, half sobbing. This was also ruled out, and 
the witness was admonished to restrain herself, and to 
confine her remarks to answering questions of counsel. 
She went on to say that she had received letters from 
time to time from the girl, post-marked from New York, 
but she had never discovered her address, nor seen her 
alive after they separated. In these letters, Miss Sloane 
had told her mother " not to worry," that she was " do 
ing very well and hoped soon to do better ; " that " my 
friend, the Doctor, has been very kind to me," and 
other passages of this nature. But there was never any 


allusion to a marriage, nor to Dr. Medjora as intending 
to marry her. 

Under cross-examination, which was rather brief, she 
admitted that since her daughter left home, she had had 
no knowledge of her except through those letters, and 
that therefore she did not know, positively, that the girl 
had not been married. It was also made to appear that 
the girl had never been very happy in her home, and 
had frequently, even before her acquaintance with Doc 
tor Medjora, expressed her determination to " leave home 
at the first chance." She also admitted, reluctantly, that 
she knew nothing, positively, against the character of the 
accused, " except that it was plain to be seen that he 
was a villain with no respect for a woman." This, of 
course, was stricken out. 

The undertaker, who had originally taken charge of the 
body, was placed upon the stand, and testified that he 
had not removed the body from the house, when he 
was notified by the Coroner to retire from the case. 
Neither he, nor his assistants, had used any embalming 
fluid, nor had they injected any fluids whatever into the 
body before they gave it into the care of the Coroner s 
physician. He swore that it was the same body which 
had been shown to him as that of Mabel Sloane, that he 
had given to Dr. McDougal. 

A few more witnesses were called, in corroboration of 
minor details, and to protect the case of the prosecution 
from technical flaws of omission, and then Mr. Munson 
announced that their side would rest. 


The crowd in the court-room leaned forward, as Mr. 
Dudley arose, eager to hear him open for the defence, as 
they supposed that he was about to do. Instead of this 
he addressed the court as follows : 

" May it please your Honor, we must request you, 
before permitting the prosecution to rest, to instruct 
that Dr. Fisher be called as a witness." 

" Dr. Fisher, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " is 
not our witness. He is not named in the indictment. 
There is no reason, however, why the defence should not 
call him if they wish him." 

" Upon what ground, Mr. Dudley," asked the Re 
corder, " do you make this motion ? " 

" Upon the ground, sir, that Dr. Fisher is an impor 
tant witness to material facts connected with the demise 
of Miss Sloane. He was the senior attending physician, 
whilst Dr. Meredith had only been called in consulta 
tion. The prosecution have called Dr. Meredith, recog 
nizing that as an attending physician his knowledge of 
the facts is material to the cause at issue. We claim 
that the testimony of Dr. Fisher, the other physician in 
attendance, and present at the death-bed, is equally 
material, and that the prosecution have no right to 
choose between the two men, selecting one as their wit 
ness, and rejecting the other. The fact that they have 
done so, would warrant the imputation that the prosecu 
tion are seeking for a conviction of our client, rather than 
looking for justice, in a thorough sifting of all available 
facts. I am sure that the honorable council on the other 


side will be only too glad to avoid such an imputation in 
the public mind, now that their attention has been called 
to the omission." 

" Counsel is very generous," said Mr. Munson, with 
much sarcasm. " His solicitude for the reputation of 
the district attorney s office is very touching, but at the 
same time entirely misplaced. In this matter, those 
who have charge of the case of the commonwealth, feel 
that they can safely permit the conduct of this case to 
meet the most searching criticism. We decline to call 
Dr. Fisher, unless ordered to do so by the court." 

"Then we move that the court so order," snapped 
back Mr. Dudley. 

" It certainly seems to me," said the Recorder, " that 
the testimony of this physician is very material, and that 
he should have been included among the witnesses for 
the people. Have you any arguments against this view, 
Mr. Munson ?" 

- " Only this, your Honor, that it was considered that 
the testimony of one witness would suffice. The selec 
tion was made without regard to known opinion, for 
none had been expressed prior to the issuance of a sub- 
pcena calling Dr. Meredith into the case. We decided 
to have but one witness, merely to save unnecessary costs. 
Now so far as this motion is concerned, we maintain that 
it comes too late. Counsel was served with a copy of the 
indictment, which contained a list of our witnesses upon 
the back. Thus they had ample notice of our intention 
not to call Dr. Fisher, and if they desired that we should 


do so, the motion should have been made earlier, and 
not at the end of our case." 

" What have you to say in reply, Mr. Dudley ? " asked 
the Recorder. 

" Your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, showing by his bear 
ing an assurance of gaining the point for which he con 
tended ; " the excuse that the name of Dr. Fisher does 
not appear among the list of witnesses for the prosecution, 
is entirely aside from the issue. It is a claim that has 
been made and rejected more than once. I need only 
remind your Honor of the Holden case, to bring it to 
your Honor s immediate recollection. That case was 
very similar to this one. Three surgeons had examined 
the body of the deceased, and but two of these had been 
called by the prosecuting attorney, counsel refusing upon 
the identical ground that his name had not appeared in 
the indictment. The presiding judge, Paterson, ruled 
that as a material witness, he must be called. That is 
precisely the condition here and I hope your Honor will 
see the justice of calling Dr. Fisher." 

" I am decidedly of the opinion, Mr. Munson, that 
counsel is in the right. This man is a witness material 
to the cause of justice ! " 

" Oh, certainly, if your Honor thinks so, we will call 
him. He was omitted under the presumption that his 
evidence would be redundant, and add unnecessarily to 
the costs." Mr. Dudley sat down much pleased at his 
victory, and older lawyers nodded approvingly at his 
skilful presentation of the law. Dr. Fisher, being in 


court, was then asked to take the stand. Mr. Munson 
examined him with evident reluctance. 

" You attended Miss Sloane in her last illness, Doc 
tor ? " he began. 

" Yes, sir ! " 

" From what disease was she suffering ? " 

" Diphtheria." 

" Any other disease ? " 

" Not to my knowledge." 

" Then of course you saw no symptoms of Bright s 
disease ?" 

" Well, my attention was not called to any such 

" Be kind enough to give us a direct reply. Did you, 
or did you not, discover symptoms of Bright s disease ? " 

" I cannot say that she did not have that disease, but 
she made no complaints which made me suspect it." 

" Exactly ! You did not suspect that she had Bright s 
disease, until you heard it suggested here during this 
trial. Is that about it ? " 

" I did not consider it at all." 

" Now, then, I believe that you called Dr. Meredith 
into the case ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Why did you do that ? " 

" Because, despite the efforts of myself and Dr. Med- 
jora, the girl did not improve." 

" That is to say, you found yourself incompetent to 
control the disease ? " 


" I felt that I should have assistance. It is common 
practice to call a physician in consultation when a dis 
ease becomes uncontrollable." 

" He is usually a man who has special knowledge, is he 
not ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" And you considered Dr. Meredith such a man ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" That is to say, he had more knowledge of this dis 
ease than you yourself ? " 

" Not that precisely. But he has made a special study 
of the disease, and I knew that he could give us valuable 

" After Dr. Meredith came into the case the patient 
began to improve, did she not ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" On the last day of her life, you met Dr. Meredith 
at the house, and you decided that it would be safe to 
leave the patient until the following day, I believe. You 
found her much improved ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" The membrane had all disappeared, had it not ? " 

" Very nearly." 

" So much so that she could swallow without dif 
ficulty ?" 

" She swallowed very well." 

" In fact you concluded that she would recover ?" 

" I thought that she had passed the crisis, but I did 
not deem her to be entirely out of danger." 


" Did you, at any time during this illness, prescribe or 
administer opium in any form ? " 

" No, sir." 

" Did you see any evidence of that drug exhibited by 
her condition, lethargic sleep, contracted pupils, or any 
other diagnostic symptom ? " 

" No, sir." 

" Now, then, you left this girl in the afternoon, recov 
ering from her attack of diphtheria and able to swallow, 
and you were hurriedly called back in the evening, and 
found her dying. Did not that surprise you ? " 

" Yes. I had not expected the disease to take a fatal 
turn, at least not so rapidly." 

" Yet she was in such a condition that she could not 
even swallow coffee ? " 

" No, but that 

" Never mind the reasons, Doctor. The fact is all that 
we want. Shortly after your entrance into her room she 
died, did she not ? " 

"Yes, sir, at eleven thirty. About five minutes after." 

" Now, Doctor, notwithstanding the fact that in the 
afternoon you thought this girl practically out of danger, 
and notwithstanding the sudden and alarming change 
which you saw in her that night, and in spite of the fact 
that the specialist whom you yourself had called into the 
case, reported to you that he suspected morphine poison 
ing, you signed a death certificate assigning diphtheria 
as the cause of death. Now why did you do that ?" 

" Because it was my opinion ! " 


" Oh, I see. It was your opinion. Then you did not 
actually know it." 

" Not actually of course. We never " 

" That is all ! " exclaimed Mr. Munson, cutting off the 
witness at the point in his reply most advantageous to 
his side, and the Doctor remained silent, but appeared 
much annoyed. 

Mr. Bliss smiled at the old legal trick, and in taking 
the witness began at once, by allowing him to finish 
the interrupted speech. 

" Dr. Fisher," said he, " you had not quite ended your 
reply when counsel closed your examination. What else 
was it that you wished to say ? " 

" I wished to say that I could not actually know the 
cause of death, because medicine is not an exact science. 
It is rarely possible to have absolute knowledge about 
diseased conditions. No t\vo cases have ever been seen 
that were precisely identical." 

" Hut you judged that this girl died of diphtheria from 
your experience with such cases, is that it ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" How much experience have you had ! " 

" I have been in practice nearly forty years." 

" And Dr. Meredith, although a specialist, has had less 
experience than you, has he not ? " 

" I object," cried Mr. Munson, " Dr. Meredith was 
not an expert witness in the first place, and it is too late 
to try to impeach his ability now." 

" The objection is sustained," said the Recorder. 


" Now, Dr. Fisher, as you signed a death certificate 
naming diphtheria as a cause of death, of course that 
was your opinion at that time. You have been present 
throughout this trial, and have heard all of the evidence, 
I believe ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" Have you heard anything which has made you alter 
your opinion ? " 

" No, sir." 

" Then tell us, please, in your opinion what was the 
cause of death." 

" I still think that the girl died of diphtheria." 

" Despite all the testimony as to finding morphine in 
the body, and despite the condition of the kidneys, you 
still think that this girl died of diphtheria ? " 

" I do." 

Mr. Bliss was taking full advantage of his victory over 
the prosecution, in compelling them to call this witness, 
who was now giving evidence so damaging to their 

" Now, then, Doctor, we would like a little more light 
upon the facts from which you make this deduction. It 
has been testified and admitted by you, that in the after 
noon the membrane had nearly all disappeared, and that 
the crisis had passed. Yet the girl died a few hours 
later, and you still attribute it to the original disease. 
How do you come to that conclusion ?" 

" Diphtheria causes death in several ways. Commonly 
the false membrane grows more rapidly than it can be 


removed, and the patient is practically strangled, or 
asphyxiated by it. It is in such a condition that trach 
eotomy is essayed, affording a breathing aperture below the 
locality of the disease. It is not uncommon for the patient 
apparently to combat the more frightful form of the 
disease, so that the false membrane is thrown off, and 
the parts left apparently in a fair state of health, so far 
as freedom to breathe and swallow is concerned. But 
then it may happen, especially in anaemic individuals, 
that this fight against the disease has left the patient in a 
state of enervation and lowered vitality, which borders 
on collapse. The extreme crisis is passed, but the 
danger lurks insidiously near. At any moment a change 
for the worse might occur, whilst recovery would be very 
slow. When death comes in this form, it is a gradual 
lessening of vital action throughout the body ; a slow 
slipping away of life, as it were." 

" Exactly ! So that such a condition might readily be 
mistaken for a gradually deepening coma ? " 

" Yes, sir. Whilst the term coma is applied to a 
specific condition, the two forms of death are very 
similar. In fact, I might say it is a sort of coma, which 
after all is common in many diseases." 

" So that you would say that this coma, did not spe 
cifically indicate morphine poisoning?" 

" No, sir, it could not be said." 

" How was the pulse ? " 

" The pulse was slow, but that is what we expect with 
this form of death." 


" So that the slow pulse would not necessarily indicate 
poison ?" 

" Not at all." 

" Was the breathing stertorous ? " 

" Not in the true sense. Respiration was very slow, 
and there was a slight difficulty, but it was not distinctly 

" How were the pupils of the eyes ? Contracted ? " 

" No, they were dilated if anything." 

" Now then, Doctor please consider this. Dr. Mere 
dith told us that a symptomatic effect of morphine death, 
would be pupils contracted and then dilating slowly as 
death approached. Now did you observe the contracted 
pupils ? " 

" No, sir." 

" What effect does atropine have upon the pupils ? " 

" It dilates them." 

" Dr. Meredith admitted that he injected atropine. 
In your opinion would that account for the dilatation 
of the pupils just previous to death, which you say that 
you yourself observed ? " 

" I should say yes." 

" I will only detain you another minute, Doctor." Mr. 
Bliss then asked for and obtained the aluminum hypo 
dermic case and handed it to Dr. Fisher. He asked : 

" Doctor, do you recognize that ? " 

" Yes, it is mine." 

" How long has it been out of your possession ? " 

" I missed it on the day of Miss Sloane s death. I 
think now that I may have left it there by accident." 


Mr. Bliss then yielded the witness, and Mr. Munson 
began a re-direct examination, which was practically a 
cross-examination, because this witness, though tech 
nically for the prosecution, was in effect a witness for 
the defence. The lawyer tried with all his cunning to 
confuse the old doctor, but the longer he continued 
the more he damaged his own cause. About the only 
thing which he brought out that might help him, was the 
following in relation to the hypodermic case. 

" How do you know that this case is yours ?" 

" Because it is made of aluminum. I had it made to 
order. I do not think that such another is yet on the 
market, though the house that made mine for me, has 
asked permission to use my model." 

" So this is certainly yours ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" If you did not make any injections, as you have 
testified that you did not, how is it that you could have 
left this at the house ? " 

" I probably took it out of my bag, when getting out 
my laryngoscope and other instruments to treat the 

" I see that this case not only contains the syringe, 
but also some small phials filled with tablets. What are 
those tablets ? " 

" They are various medicines used hypodermically." 

" Was there any morphine in t 1 is case when you last 
saw it ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" How much ? " 


" There was a phial filled with tablets. Altogether 
eighty tablets, of one eighth of a grain each." 

" Please count the tablets remaining, and state how 
1 many there are ? " 
i " I find forty-eight." 

" That is to say thirty-two pellets have been taken out ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Now, then, supposing that this is the identical syringe 
which the nurse saw Dr. Medjora using, and deducting 
the four pellets which she found in the bed, how large 
a dose must have been administered at that time ? " 

" I object ! " said Mr. Bliss. 

" It seems to be a mere matter of arithmetic," said 
the Recorder. 

" No, your Honor. That question supposes that the 
tablets missing from the phial were administered to the 
patient. Now there is no evidence whatever as to that ? " 

" Whether the missing tablets were administered or not 
is a question for the jury to decide. You may state, 
Doctor, how much morphine was contained in the miss 
ing tablets." 

" As there are forty-eight here, thirty-two are missing. 
Deducting four, that leaves us twenty-eight, or a total of 
three and a half grains." 

This was a corroboration of the estimate made by the 
experts, that three grains must have been the min 
imum dose administered, and if the jury should believe 
that these missing tablets had been given by the prisoner, 
it was evident that they must convict him. So that after 


all the prosecution did gain something out of the wit 
ness who had been forced upon them. They then 
rested their case, and court adjourned, leaving the open 
ing for the defence until the following day. 



WHEN Mr. Dudley arose to open the case for the de 
fence, the crowded court-room was as silent as the grave, 
so intense was the interest. He spoke in slow, measured 
tones, with no effort at rhetorical effect. Tersely he 
pictured the position of his client, assailed by circum 
stantial evidence, and encircled by a chain which seemed 
strong enough to drag him to the dreadful doom which 
would be his upon conviction. But the lawyer claimed 
that the .chain was not flawless. On the contrary he 
said that many of the links had been forged, and he 
dwelt upon the word with a significant accent, as he 
glance towards the prosecuting counsel ; forged from 
material which was rotten to the core, so rotten that it 
would be but necessary to direct the intelligent attention of 
the jury, to the inherently weak spots, to convince them 
that justice demanded a prompt acquittal of Dr. Medjora. 

A part of his speech is worthy of being quoted, 
and I give it verbatim : 

" This case has aroused the interest of the entire com 
munity. Prior to the beginning of this trial the people, 
having heard but the distorted reports of the evidence 


against our client, were wondering what the defence 
was to be. I do not mind confiding to you now that 
we, the counsel for the defence, wondered also. It had 
been told in the newspapers, that Dr. Meredith, one of 
the attending physicians, had suspected morphine poi 
soning, before the death of Miss Sloane. We were in 
formed that the autopsy, made by most eminent and 
skilful pathologists, had revealed evidences of this 
deadly drug. We heard later, that the chemical analysis 
had proven the actual presence of the poison itself. 
What defence could we rely upon to refute such damn 
ing evidence as that ? We were in a quandary. We 
went to our client and revealed to him the gravity of 
his position, and we begged him to suggest some way 
out of the dilemma. What was his reply ? Gentlemen 
of the jury, he said to me : I cannot invent any de 
fence. I would not if I could. I would not accept my 
life, or my liberty, by means of any trick. But I know 
that I am innocent. Moreover, as a member of the 
medical profession, and as an acquaintance of the ex 
perts who have been at work for the prosecution, I rely 
upon their integrity and skill, to discover the true secret 
of this death, which was as shocking to me, as to the 
community. Thus we were told by our client to formu 
late no defence in advance, but to wait for the evidence 
of the prosecution s expert witnesses, and from the very 
source from which conviction would be expected, he 
bade us pluck his deliverance. At the time, it seemed 
to us a hazardous dependence, but, gentlemen of the 


jury, it has proven better than we had reason to expect, 
for it will be upon the testimony of the prosecution s 
witnesses, almost exclusively, that we will look to you for 
an acquittal. In evidence of what I have told you, I 
will ask you to recall the testimony of the first witness, 
Dr. Meredith. He claimed that the characteristic symp 
toms of morphine poisoning could alone indicate that 
death had been due to morphine. Then you will re 
member that my associate, in cross-examination, formu 
lated a hypothetical question in which he asked if it 
would not be possible for a patient dying of diphtheria 
to take morphine, and whilst exhibiting symptoms of 
that drug, still to die of diphtheria. I submit it to you, 
gentlemen, was not the hypothesis suggested by that 
question an ingenious one ? I think so, and as such I 
think that my associate is entitled to credit. But, gen 
tlemen, it was the invention of a lawyer, conscientiously 
( seeking for a loophole of escape for his client ; it was 
not the true, the only proper, defence in this case. And 
it is this that explains the fact that the question has not 
been propounded to the other experts. It was, never 
theless, a shrewd guess on the part of Mr. Bliss, though 
being only the guess of a lawyer groping blindly amidst 
the secrets of medicine, it does not include the whole 
truth. But now, our defence has been made plain, illu 
minated, as it were, by the statements of the experts, 
who have testified, until even the minds of plain law 
yers, like myself and my associate, have grasped it. 
Then, and not until then, did our client give us informa- 


tion, which he will repeat to you presently, and which 
corroborates the view which we shall ask you to accept. 
The simple facts in this case are : Miss Sloane suf 
fered terribly from Bright s disease, until through pain 
she was driven to take morphine, finally becoming ad 
dicted to it. Then came the attack of diphtheria, 
throughout which Dr. Medjora nursed her, procuring 
skilled physicians, and a competent nurse, until the ar 
rival of the tragic day which ended her life. When 
the doctors believed that the worst phase of diphtheria 
had passed, but when, as you have heard, she was still 
in danger from exhaustion, she experienced a severe at 
tack of pain caused by the Bright s disease, and to re 
lieve that, morphine was given as you shall hear. That 
night she died, whether of exhaustion from diphtheria, 
or whether, because of Bright s disease, morphine had 
been stored up in her system, until a fatal dose had 
accumulated, none of us will ever know. But that is 
immaterial, for in either case, she died a natural death, 
and thus our client is entirely blameless in this whole 
affair. The Doctor will now take the stand in his own 

Dr. Medjora did as he was bidden by his counsel, and 
thus became the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Dudley took 
his seat and Mr. Bliss conducted the examination. 

" Dr. Medjora," he began, " will you please state what 
relation you bore to the deceased, Miss Mabel Sloane ? " 

" She was my wife ! " he replied, thus producing a 
startling sensation at the very outset. 


" When were you married, and by whom ? " 

" We were married in Newark, by the Rev. Dr. Mag 
nus, on the exact day upon which Miss Sloane parted 
from her mother and left her home in Orange. The 
precise date can be seen upon the certificate of mar 

Mr. Bliss produced a marriage certificate, which was 
admitted, and identified by Dr. Medjora, Mr. Bliss ex 
plaining that the clergyman who had signed it would 
appear later and testify to the validity of the document. 

" Did you and your wife live together after mar 
riage ? " 

* Yes. For more than a year. Then I had occasion 
to go to Europe for several months, and she went to live 
at the Twenty-sixth Street house." 

" How was it that at that place she passed as a single 
woman ? " 

" Because before I went away, I took from her the 
marriage certificate, and her wedding-ring. I then in 
structed her to keep our marriage a secret, threatening 
to abandon her if she did not obey me." 

" What explanation have you to make of such con 
duct ? " 

" Shortly after our marriage, I discovered that my 
wife was afflicted with Bright s disease, for which I 
treated her with much apparent success. Unfortu 
nately, however, previous to our marriage, she had be 
come addicted to the use of morphine for relief until 
she had almost become an habitue. I used every effort 


to cure her, and thought that I had succeeded, when, 
just before my departure for Europe, I found her 
one day with morphine tablets and a new hypodermic 
needle, in the act of administering the drug. In despair 
I simulated great rage, took away her marriage certifi 
cate and ring, and threatened that if during my absence 
she should use the drug, I would never acknowledge her 
as my wife. Thus, my apparent cruelty was intended 
as a kindness. I knew that she loved me, even more 
than she did morphine, and I hoped to compel her to 
abandon the drug, by causing her to fear the loss of her 

" Did you take any further steps for her safety ! " 

" Yes. I confided her secret, and mine, to a dear 
friend and skilful physician, who promised to watch over 
her, and shield her from pain or other harm during my 

" Will you state who this friend is ? " 

" Was, you mean. He no longer is my friend, if he 
ever was. He proved himself to be a traitor to friend- 
ship, for he tried to alienate my wife s affections from 
me, in which, however, he failed utterly. That man was 
Dr. Meredith, the false friend who charged me with this 

Here was a sensation so entirely unexpected, and the 
situation became so intense, that people held their 
breaths, awed into silence. Dr. Meredith, who was in 
court, held his eyes down and gazed steadfastly at a 
knot in the floor, whilst those nearest to him saw that he 


trembled violently. Mr. Bliss, quick to recognize that 
his client was making a most favorable impression, with 
true dramatic instinct, paused some time before con 
tinuing. Finally he asked : 

" Then Dr. Meredith knew that Miss Sloane was your 
wife ? " 

" He did." 

" Also that she was addicted to morphine ? " 

" I told him so myself." 

" That she had Bright s disease ? " 

" Yes." 

" How soon after your return did you learn that he 
had been too attentive to your wife ?" 

" I must object, your Honor," interjected Mr. Munson. 
"Counsel is again endeavoring to impeach our witness, and 
I must once more maintain that it is too late to do so." 

" The question is allowed," replied the Recorder. 

" But, your Honor," persisted Mr. Munson, " you ruled 
yesterday that questions of this nature could not be asked." 

" I know very well what I ruled, Mr. Munson," said 
the Recorder, sharply. "You objected yesterday to 
evidence against Dr. Meredith s ability as a physician, 
and I sustained you. This is a different matter. As I 
understand it, counsel is now endeavoring to show that 
Dr. Meredith was a prejudiced witness. I shall allow 
the fullest latitude in that direction." 

"We thank you very much, your Honor," said Mr. 
Bliss, and then turned to his client saying : " Please 
answer my question." 


" I knew of it before I returned. In fact, it was be 
cause of letters from my wife, complaining of this man, 
that I shortened my trip abroad." 

"What happened between you after your return ?" 

" I charged him with his unfaithfulness to his trust, 
and we quarrelled. Had he been a larger man, I should 
have thrashed him ! " 

" Was it after this that you attacked one of his papers 
in debate ? " 

" Yes, immediately afterwards. In fact I think that 
the quarrel between us had much to do with it. He 
must have been in a very disturbed frame of mind, to 
have written such a blundering thesis, for ordinarily he 
is a skilful physician." 

"Then, on the whole, Dr. Meredith was inaccurate 
when he said that you and he are not enemies ? " 

" He simply lied." 

" You must not use such language," said the Recorder, 

" I must apologize to your Honor," replied Dr. Med- 
jora. " But when I think of what this man has done to 
me, it is difficult to control myself." 

" But you must control yourself," said the .Recorder. 

" Now, then, Doctor," said Mr. Bliss, " please tell us of 
your acquaintance with your wife prior to marriage." 
Thereafter Mr. Bliss always spoke of the dead girl as the 
wife, thus forcing that fact upon the attention of the 
jury. Dr. Medjora replied : 

" I met my wife when she was scarcely more than a 


school-girl, and I became interested in her because, as 
her mother hinted, she was above her people, being far 
superior to them in intelligence and demeanor. I cannot 
say when my friendship increased to a warmer feeling, 
but I think that I first became aware of it, by seeing her 
mother beat her ! " 

" You saw your wife s mother beat her, you say ? " 

" I called one evening, without previous warning, and 
the door of the cottage being, open, I felt privileged to 
walk in. I saw the girl down on her knees, before the 
mother, who held her by the hair with one hand, whilst 
she struck her in the face with the other." 

" Did you interfere?" 

" I was much enraged at the cruel exhibition, and I 
took the girl from her mother forcibly. After that I 
went to the house oftener, and we became more closely 
attached to one another. The mother never spoke 
civilly to me after that occurrence." 

" Mrs. Sloane testified that she had had a quarrel with 
her daughter, shortly after which she disappeared. What 
do you know of that ? " 

" Mabel wrote to me that her mother had again under 
taken to beat her. I use the word advisedly, because it 
was not a chastisement such as a parent may be privi 
leged to indulge in. Mrs. Sloane would strike her 
daughter with her fists, bruising her face, neck, and body. 
Besides, Mabel was no longer a child. When I heard 
this, I sent a message instructing Mabel to meet me in 
Newark. There we were married." 


" Now, Doctor, we will go back to Dr. Meredith. Will 
you explain how it happened that, although you and he 
were enemies, he should have been called into the 
case ? " 

" When the attack of diphtheria presented, I under 
took to treat it at first. Two days later I became ill 
myself, and called in Dr. Fisher. I did not tell him 
that Mabel was my wife, but let him think, with those in 
the house, that she was merely my fiancee. I gave the 
case entirely into his care. During my sickness Dr. 
Fisher became alarmed, and called in Dr. Meredith, of 
course not suspecting that there existed any ill feeling 
between him and me. That Dr. Meredith should have 
accepted the call under the circumstances, was contrary 
to medical etiquette, but he did so, and I found him 
attending my wife when I recovered. I could not 
interfere very well, without creating a scandal, and, 
besides, though I despise him as a man, I know him to 
be one of the best specialists in the city." Dr. Med- 
jora accorded this praise to his rival with every appear- 
ance of honest candor, and it was evident that his doing 
so was a wise course, causing the jury to receive his 
other statements with more credulity. If he was play 
ing a part he did so with marvellous tact and judgment. 

" Between the time of your return from Europe, and 
this attack of diphtheria, do you know whether your 
wife took any morphine ? " 

" Upon my return I did not question her at all. I had 
made the threat of abandoning her, with no intention 


of course of carrying it into effect, for whilst I hoped that 
it would act as a deterrent, stimulating her will to resist 
the attraction of the drug, I knew from my professional 
experience that she would not be able to withstand it 
entirely. Thus if I had questioned her, she must have 
confessed, as she was strictly truthful. This would have 
placed me in an awkward predicament, compelling me 
to admit that my threat had never been seriously 
intended, and thus I should have lessened my influence 
over her for the future. However, not long before her 
last illness, I found a syringe in her room as well as 
some tablets. These I appropriated and took away 
without saying anything to her." 

" How long before the attack of diphtheria was this ? " 

" Two or three days." 

" Supposing that she had been taking morphine prior 
to that time, do you think that it might have accumu 
lated in her system, finally producing death ? " 

"I object ! " said Mr. Munson. " The witness is not 
here as an expert." 

" He is the accused," said the Recorder, " and as the 
party having the greatest interest at stake I will allow 
him to answer. He simply expresses his opinion. 
The jury will decide whether it is worthy of credence." 

Mr. Bliss smiled with satisfaction, but was a little sur 
prised at the answer, though later he understood better 
that the Doctor appreciated what he said. The answer 
was : 

" Considering the length of time which elapsed from 


the moment when I took away the syringe, to the day of 
her death, I cannot believe that morphine taken previ 
ously could have accumulated, and have caused death 

Mr. Bliss was puzzled and paused a moment to think, 
whilst Mr. Munson, much pleased at this apparently 
damaging testimony given by the prisoner himself, 
wore a pleased expression. Mr. Bliss scarcely knew 
what to ask next. He glanced at a list of notes 
supplied by Dr. Medjora and read this one. " Ask me 
about retained morphine. Go into it thoroughly." 
The latter part of this sentence convinced him that Dr. 
Medjora must have conceived his defence along this 
line, and, therefore, though doubting the propriety of 
doing so, he ventured another question. 

" It has been admitted," said he, " by the expert wit 
nesses that morphine may be accumulated in the system, 
finally resulting fatally. How does that occur, and why 
do you think it did not occur in this case ?" 

" I have not said that it did not occur. You asked 
me whether morphine taken prior to her illness, may 
have caused her death, and I said no, to that. I did 
not say that she did not die from morphine, because 
I do not know that. As I understand it, when morphine 
acts fatally by accumulation, it is where it is administered 
continuously. Part of the close is eliminated, and the 
rest stored up. Finally this stored up quantity amounts 
to a lethal dose. In this case, as far as we know, there was 
a suspension of the administration. The accumulated 


quantity, when the drug was stopped, could not have 
amounted to a lethal dose, or death would have ensued. 
The dosing being discontinued, the stored- up quantity 
must have grown less and less, day by day, by gradual 

This interested the jury very evidently. They could 
not but decide that this man was honest, to offer such 
evidence as seemed against his own interests. Mr. 
Bliss, still puzzled, ventured another question. 

" You said that your wife may have died of this drug, 
or words to that effect. How can you think that ? " 

"Whilst, as I have said, the accumulated drug was 
lessening in quantity daily, by elimination, nevertheless 
death by poisoning would have ensued at any time, if a 
dose of morphine had been administered, of sufficient 
size, so that when added to that still in the system, the 
whole would have amounted to a lethal quantity." 

" Miss Conlin, the nurse, testified that she saw you 
administer a dose of morphine. She afterwards ad 
mitted that she had only .seen you remove a syringe. 
Did you at that time administer a dose of. morphine, a 
dose large enough to have caused death in the manner 
you have described ? " 

" I did not. " 

Then as far as you know, your wife did not take any 
morphine on the day of her death ?" 

" On the contrary, she did take some !" This was a 
tremendous surprise. 

" How did it occur ?" asked Mr. Bliss, still following 


his notes and at length seeing the point to which Dr. 
Medjora had been leading. 

" She administered it to herself." The Doctor paused 
a moment as though to allow his startling statement to 
l>e digested. Then he continued : " As the nurse tes 
tified, I gave her permission to go out. I sat and chatted 
with my wife a few moments, and then bade her be 
<jiiiet, lest talking should injure the throat. She obeyed, 
and after a time seemed to be asleep. I sat over by the 
lamp reading, and, thinking that my patient was asleep, 
became absorbed in my book, until I was attracted by 
an ejaculation from my wife. I went to her, and to my 
surprise found that she had just administered a dose of 
morphine to herself. I snatched her hands away, and 
withdrew the instrument whilst there was yet a little of 
the solution in it. Miss Conlin came in at the moment. 
I knew that she had seen me, and not wishing to arouse 
her suspicions as to the truth, I preferred to let her 
think that I had given the injection myself. Therefore 
I washed out the syringe, and placing it in my pocket, 
took it away with me." 

" So that there was sufficient morphine solution left in 
the syringe, to have enabled Miss Conlin to taste it, as 
she claims to have done?" Mr. Bliss asked this ques 
tion, because at last he had discovered the full intentions 
of the Doctor. It is very often the case in great crimi 
nal trials, that, either upon advice of counsel, or by di 
rection of the accused, vital points are left unexplained, 
or else related with variations which convince the jury 


that a lie is told. The prisoner having heard all of the 
evidence, sees that certain acts of his have been viewed, 
and accepted as proof of his guilt. He becomes afraid, 
and when asked about these, he denies flatly that they 
have occurred. Then the prosecution, in rebuttal, brings 
cumulative testimony to support its first witnesses, and 
the jury, seeing that the prisoner has lied, conclude that 
he is guilty of the crime charged. Yet it may be that a 
man may lie in following a badly conceived line of de 
fence, even though he be an innocent man. Still, it takes 
a brave man, and a cool one, to go upon the stand and 
admit damaging circumstances as Dr. Medjora was do 
ing. But Dr. Medjora was undoubtedly courageous, and 
not one to become confused. Therefore Mr. Bliss, 
admiring his coolness, decided to give him a chance 
to relate the very occurrences which when told by the 
nurse had seemed so conclusive of guilt. Dr. Medjora 
replied : 

" I have no doubt that she could have tasted the mor 
phine in the water in which I washed out the syringe." 

" Can you tell how your wife obtained possession of 
the hypodermic syringe, and the morphine ? " 

" I did not know at the time. But as it was the 
aluminum case which has been placed in evidence, it 
must have been left by Dr. Fisher, unless she abstracted 
it surreptitiously from his bag." 

" Do you know how much morphine she took at that 

" No, not positively, but I have no doubt that the esti- 


mate made regarding the missing tablets closely repre 
sents what she took." 

" You mean three and one half grains ? " 

" She probably took between three, and three and a 
half grains, as some was left in the syringe." 

; Then that self-administered dose was sufficient to 
cause death ? " 

" Oh, no. I have known her to take twice that quan 
tity." This statement was also received with much 

"The experts told us, Doctor," said Mr. Bliss, "that 
a sixth of a grain has caused death." 

" Has been known to cause death. Yes. But that 
does not prove that it will always do so. The habitue 
becomes wonderfully tolerant of it. The records are 
replete with histories of from twenty, to even a hundred 
grains of morphine without fatal result." 

" Then you do not think that three, or three and a half 
grains of morphia would have caused the death of your 
wife ? " 

" Not of itself. But if a quantity of the drug was in 
her system, this added dose may have contributed to her 

" In such a case where would the morphine be chiefly 
found after death, by chemical analysis ? " 

" In the intestines mainly, because there the stored 
quantity would have been. But also in the stomach, 
because of the recent administration." This view was 
entirely agreeable with the expert evidence. 


" In your opinion then, your wife died from the accu 
mulation of morphine, all of which was self-admin 
istered ? " 

" Certainly all the morphine that she took was ad 
ministered by herself." 

" But you are charged with having administered mor 
phine, or other form of opium, which caused death. 
What have you to say to that ? " 

" I deny that during this last illness, or at any time, 
any such drug was administered to my wife, Mabel Med- 
jora, by me, or at my order ! " 

The last speech was electric, partly from the manner 
of its utterance, and especially because, for the first 
time during the trial, the dead girl was called by the 
name of the prisoner. Mr. Bliss felt assured that he had 
won his case, and yielded the witness for cross-examina 
tion with a smile. Mr. Munson begged for an adjourn 
ment, that the cross-examination might be continuous, 
, and not interrupted as it would necessarily be if begun 
late in the afternoon. This request was granted, and 
the shrewd lawyer thus obtained time to read over the 
Doctor s evidence, and be better able to attack him. 



THE next day s proceedings began promptly, Dr. 
Medjora taking the stand for cross-examination. His 
evidence in his own behalf, it was generally conceded, 
had materially weakened the prosecution s case, and it 
was with much interest that the lawyers watched the 
outcome of his cross-examination. Mr. Munson began : 

" You have testified that Miss Sloane was a morphine 
habitue" Before he could propound a question based 
upon this statement, the Doctor replied quickly : 

" I have not so testified." 

" You have not ? " asked the attorney, with much 

" No ! I said that she had taken morphine, for pain 
from Bright s disease, until she had almost become an 
habit ut." 

" That is practically the same thing," said the lawyer, 

" Pardon my disagreeing with you. Had she become 
a confirmed user of the drug, for the drug s sake, she 
would probably have been suspected by those who lived 
in the house with her, and thus it would be easy for us 
to produce witnesses in corroboration of my assertion. 



But as she used it merely to soothe pain, even though 
she did take large doses, it was at such intervals, that 
symptoms of morphine were not sufficiently marked to 
attract the attention of an ordinary observer." 

Messrs. Dudley and Bliss were delighted at this early 
proof that the Doctor would be a match for the astute 
attorney, who was about to endeavor to entangle him in 
contradictions, or damaging- admissions. 

"Oh! Very well!" said Mr. Munson. "You say 
that she took morphine in large doses. You knew this, 
and also that she had a serious disease, and yet you left 
her alone in a strange boarding-house, whilst you went 
away to Europe?" 

" I left her under the medical care of one who cer 
tainly possessed skill, and who pretended to be my 
friend. I went to Europe, in the cause of humanity, to 
prosecute studies which I yet hope to make a benefit 
to my fellows." Thus the Doctor confidently predicted 
his acquittal. This was most shrewd, for it not infre 
quently occurs that men may be moved by suggestion, 
even when not in the hypnotic state. Dr. Medjora was 
a past master in psychological science. 

" How long had you been married, at this time ?" 

" Eighteen months." 

" Then, when you left this woman, she was not only 
suffering from disease, and the dangers of morphine, but 
she was grieving for her dead child, was she not ? " 

This was a neat trap, sprung without warning, but the 
game was shy and wary. The Doctor replied sternly : 


" I have not testified either that she had a child, or 
that, if so, she had lost it." 

" Well, did she have a child ?" 

" You have had expert testimony upon that point. 
Why ask me ? " 

" That is my affair. Answer my question." 

" I must decline to do so ! " 

" I appeal to the court to compel the witness to 

" Your Honor," cried Mr. Dudley, rising, " we ob 
ject. Counsel, for some undiscoverable reason, seems 
determined to probe the private affairs of our client. We 
think that this question is irrelevant and incompetent." 

" What is the object of this, Mr. Munson," asked the 

" Your Honor has ruled, and a million precedents 
uphold you, that we may examine into the relations that 
existed between the accused and the deceased." 

" Your Honor," interjected Mr. Dudley, " you allowed 
a similar question yesterday, because counsel argued, 
that if he could prove the existence of a natural child, 
he would show that the deceased through the child had 
strong claim upon our client. I will also call your Hon 
or s attention to the fact, that at that time allusion was 
made to another visionary claim on the part of the prose 
cution. This was that Dr. Medjora was in the position 
to marry a wealthy woman, and that the poor musician, 
with her child, became an obstacle in his way. Now, 
not a scintilla of evidence has been brought out, in sub- 


stantiation of that claim, which as I said, at that time, 
was made merely to affect the jury. Moreover, since 
then, we have shown that this woman was the lawful 
wife of Dr. Medjora, and, therefore, her having, or not 
having a child, can have no possible bearing upon the 
issue. I hope that the question will not be allowed." 

" I cannot see," said the Recorder, " what is to be 
gained by this, Mr. Munson ? " 

" Oh, very well, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, " if 
you think that it is unnecessary to the case of the peo 
ple, I will withdraw it. We only seek for justice, despite 
the aspersions of counsel." 

" I have no doubt whatever of your conscientious 
ness," said the Recorder, to mollify the rising anger of 
Mr. Munson. The examination then proceeded. 

" You told us yesterday, that you had received a letter 
whilst in Europe, in which Miss Sloane wrote that Dr. 
Meredith was persecuting her with his attentions. Of 
course you have that letter ? " 

" No ! It has been lost, unfortunately ! " 

" Unfortunately lost ! I should say most unfortunately 
lost, since it is the only corroboration you had of your 
remarkable statement. How did you happen to lose this 
precious document?" 

" I think that it was stolen when my office was searched 
by detectives, who were accompanied by Dr. Meredith." 

The insinuation deftly concealed in this statement, 
that either Dr. Meredith had taken the paper, or that 
the District Attorney had suppressed it, had a visible 


effect upon the jury, who looked from one to the other 
significantly. Mr. Munson was chagrined to find what 
he had thought a good point in his favor, thus turned 
against him so quickly. He attempted to repair the 

" You say you think this. Do you not know, that 
what a man thinks is not admissible in evidence ? " 

" I did the best that I could to answer your question." 
This reply, in the humblest of tones, caused a smile. 

" You have no positive knowledge that it was stolen, 
have you ? " 

" I know that it was locked in my desk, that during 
my absence the desk was forced open, and that upon my 
return the paper was gone. Whether it was stolen, or 
whether it forced its way out of my desk, you may de 
cide for yourself." 

" You have no evidence, beyond your own word, that 
Dr. Meredith acted as you have charged ? " 

" None ! " 

"You never told any friend, before the death of this 
girl, that Dr. Meredith had persecuted her ? " 

" No. I had no confidants." 

" Not even when you found that he had been called in 
to attend Miss Sloane ? You did not explain this to Dr. 
Fisher ? " 

" No. Dr. Fisher was comparatively a stranger to me. 
I knew him by association in societies only." 

" You could have spoken to him however, and so have 
had Dr. Meredith dismissed from the case. " 


" I considered the matter, and decided not to do so. " 

" Why did you come to so singular a conclusion ?" 

" Because, as I have already testified, despite my ani 
mosity, I concurred with Dr. Fisher s estimate of his 
skill. I thought him the most valuable consulting phy 
sician to be had, and, in a case of life and death, I 
believed that personal antagonisms should be forgotten." 

" You say Dr. Meredith was the most valuable con 
sulting physician to be had. Do you mean that he is the 
most skilled expert that you know ? " 

" No. But he is skilful and his office is very near to 
the house where the patient was. That fact was of im 
portance in deciding whether to retain him or not." 

Mr. Munson seemed to strive almost in vain to outwit 
the witness who adroitly parried every attack. 

" You have claimed," continued the lawyer, " that Miss 
Sloane administered morphine to herself ? " 

" I assert it." 

Then at least you admit that a dose, a large dose, 
was taken by the deceased in your presence, on the day 
of her death ? " 

" Yes." 

" And though you, as a physician, were conversant 
with her troubles and aware of the danger of such a 
dose, you did not prevent her from taking this danger 
ous poison ? " 

" I endeavored to do so. I took the syringe away 
from her." 

" You took it away from her after she had taken nearly 
all of the dose ? " 


" She had taken all but five minims before I could 
reach her." 

" It was you who sent the nurse away, I believe ?" 

" I gave her permission to go out." 

" You told her to remain until nine o clock ? " 

" I told her that she might do so." 

" And this syringe incident occurred at eight o clock ? " 

" At eight thirty." 

" That is, half an hour before you expected to be in 
terrupted by the return of the nurse ?" 

" You do not word your questions justly. I did not 
expect to be interrupted by the return of the nurse. To 
be interrupted, one must be occupied with some special 
work. I was not specially engaged." 

" You were supposed to be specially engaged watch 
ing your patient, in place of the nurse, with whose ser 
vices you had dispensed. Had you done your full duty, 
that is, had you done what the nurse would have done, 
kept your patient under surveillance, she would not have 
had a chance to take the morphine, would she ? " 

" It may be that I was grievously at fault, not to ob 
serve her more closely. But I thought that she was 
asleep. An error is not a crime." 

" There are errors that are criminal. Your jury will 
judge in this case. Now, if you please, answer my ques 
tion without further evasion. Did not the nurse return 
half an hour sooner than you expected her ?" 

" She returned half an hour earlier than the time up 
to which I had given her permission to be away." 

" Exactly. Now, had she remained the full time, she 


would not have known anything about this morphine 
incident ? " 

" Of course not." 

" In which case, you would have kept it a secret." 

" Most probably." 

" But, as she did see you handling the syringe, you 
knew that she would be in the position to testify to the 
fact that you yourself administered the morphine?" 

" It is not a fact that I administered the morphine, 
but I supposed that she would so testify, judging from 
what she saw." 

" Judging honestly ?" 

" Yes. Judging honestly." 

" So that this professional nurse, accustomed herself 
to using hypodermic syringes, had a right, as you admit, 
to judge from what she saw, that you administered mor 
phine to the patient ? " 

" She saw me taking away the syringe, and of course 
could conclude that I inserted the needle myself. Never 
theless her opinion was only an opinion ; it was not 

" Very well. You admit that she had a right to her 
opinion, and that you suspected what that opinion would 
be. Now, of course you realized, being an intellectual 
man, that such evidence would weigh against you ? " 

" I fully appreciated the gravity of the situation." 

" And that if not refuted, this testimony almost alone, 
would tend towards a conviction ? " 

" Yes." 


" Therefore you decided to claim that the drug was 
self-administered, knowing that the administration would 
be proved ? " 

" I knew that the administration of the drug would be 
proved. But my reason for saying that it was self- 
administered, is because it is the truth." 

" That will be for the jury to decide ! " With this 
parting shot the lawyer dismissed the witness, and his 
own counsel decided to ask no further questions. 

The clergyman who had performed the marriage cere 
mony, then took the stand, and testified to the validity 
of the marriage. He was not cross-examined. 

Then a celebrated expert toxicologist was called, 
Professor Newburg. He testified in corroboration of the 
claims of the defence, and especially to the large doses 
of morphine, which he had known to be tolerated by 
persons accustomed to it by habit. It also was claimed 
by him, that persons who had been known to take as 
much as four and five grains per day without ill effect, 
had suddenly died from so small a dose as half a grain. 
He thought that in these cases the drug had accumulated 
in the system, and the whole quantity stored up, was 
made active by the assimilation of the last dose, which 
of itself would not have been poisonous. Cross-exami 
nation did not materially alter his testimony. 

Next a pathologist was introduced, and in answer to 
a long hypothetical question, based upon the testimony 
of Dr. Fisher and the experts for the prosecution, he 
said that in his opinion the deceased died from anaemia, 


following diphtheria. The symptoms of morphine poi 
soning observed were probably due to the morphine 
which she had taken, but under the conditions described, 
he did not think that even three and a half grains would 
have caused death. He came to this conclusion, arguing 
that the condition of the kidneys showed that they were 
diseased, and the tendency would have been to store up 
this last dose, just as previous doses had probably been 
retained. In that event only a small portion would have 
become active, and whilst it might have caused con 
tracted pupils, it would not have caused death. All 
things duly considered, therefore, he thought that death 
was attributable to diphtheria. 

Under cross-examination he admitted the postulate of 
the previous witness, that a small dose, following retained 
larger doses, might cause death, but still he adhered to 
his opinion that it had not occurred here. A long series 
of questions failed to shake his opinion, or cause him to 
contradict himself. 

Several other witnesses were called, but I need 
scarcely introduce their evidence here, as much of it 
was of small importance, and none of it could have 
materially affected the verdict. The defence then 

Mr. Munson called several witnesses in rebuttal, but 
to so little effect that Mr. Bliss did not even cross- 
examine them, considering his case practically won. 
He did interfere, however, when Mr. Munson at last called 
Madame Cora Corona. 


" I must ask your Honor, what counsel expects to 
prove by this witness, and moreover, your Honor, I will 
ask that the jury be sent from the room, before any 
discussion of this subject be allowed." 

This request was granted, and the jury went into an 
adjoining apartment. Mr. Munson then explained : 

" We have been trying for a long time to summon this 
witness, your Honor, but she has skilfully avoided the 
court officers, so that it was only this morning that we 
found her. She will testify to the fact that Dr. Medjora 
has been courting her, and seeking a marriage with her, 
even previous to the death of the woman who he claims 
was his wife." 

" That is the most extraordinary expedient I have 
ever heard of, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss. " Counsel 
certainly knows better, than to suppose that at this late 
hour he can introduce new evidence. He certainly 
cannot claim that this is in rebuttal ! " 

" But I do claim that ! " said Mr. Munson. 

" What does it rebut ? " asked the Recorder. 

" This man claims that he was a true and loving 
husband to his wife, and denies that he contemplated 
such a marriage as this one, by which a wealthy wife 
would aid him to accomplish his ambitions." 

" That claim, Mr. Munson, was made by counsel for 
the defence," said the Recorder. " It has not come out 
upon the witness stand. You cannot introduce a witness 
to rebut a statement of counsel. If you wished to in 
troduce this evidence you should have questioned the 


prisoner upon these points when on the witness stand. 
Had he denied the desire to marry again, I would have 
allowed you to disprove his assertion by this witness. As 
it is, I must rule out the evidence offered." 

Mr. Munson bit his lip in mortification, when the 
Recorder pointed out to him the serious omission made 
in the examination of the accused, but of course he was 
powerless to do anything. Having no other witness to 
call, when the jurors had returned to their seats, Mr. 
Bliss arose and addressed the jury. 



" MAY it please your Honor and gentlemen of the 
jury," began Mr. Bliss, amidst an impressive silence, 
" in a few hours you will be called upon to act in a 
capacity which has been delegated to you by your 
fellow-men, but which finally is the province of our 
heavenly Father alone. You are to sit in judgment 
upon a human being, and accordingly as ye judge 
him, so shall ye be judged hereafter. I have not the 
least doubt of the integrity of your purpose ; I fully 
believe that such verdict as you shall render will be 
honestly adopted, after the most thorough weighing of 
the evidence which has been presented to you. All I 
ask is that you form your final opinion with due recog 
nition of the fact, that if a mistake is to be made, far 
better would it be that you release our client, if he be 
guilty, than that you should send him to the hangman, 
though innocent. I beg of you to remember that great 
as is the majesty of the law and the rights of the people, 
yet more must you respect the rights of this man, who 
stands alone, to defend himself against such an array of 
witnesses and lawyers, as the wealth of the whole com- 



monwealth has been able to summon against him. The 
very weakness of his position, as compared with the 
forces against which he has to contend, should excite 
your sympathies. If there be any doubt in your minds, 
it becomes, not your privilege, but your sworn duty to 
accord it to him. For, as his Honor will undoubtedly 
explain to you when expounding the law, the prosecution 
must prove the charge beyond all doubt. The burden 
of proof is upon them. They claim that the deceased 
came to her death by poison administered by our client. 
They must therefore prove that she died of poison, and 
that the poison was given by Dr. Medjora. But they 
must prove even more than that, for they must show 
that it was given with intent to destroy life. Thus, if 
you decide that she died of diphtheria, of Bright s disease, 
of poison retained in the system, or even of the last dose 
which was taken by her, you are bound to acquit our 
client, unless indeed you should adopt the extraordinary 
conclusion, that the final dose of morphine alone pro 
duced death, and that Dr. Medjora himself administered 
it, intending that it should destroy his beloved wife, for 
whom he had retained skilled medical service and nurs 
ing, and at whose bedside he even tolerated the presence 
of his bitterest enemy, because he knew that the man 
possessed the greatest skill available in the vicinity of 
the house where the poor girl lay ill. Had he intended 
to injure his wife, had he premeditated poisoning her, 
do you think that he would have allowed a man to be 
nigh, who would be only too glad to find a pretext upon 


which to charge him with a crime, but who, moreover, 
was possessed of exactly the experience and ability 
needed to detect the symptoms of a deadly poison ? 
The proposition is preposterous, and I am sure that such 
intelligent gentlemen as yourselves will cast it aside 
from you. But if the prosecution fail to prove that the 
girl did not die from natural causes, then they fail utterly 
to make out their case. Upon this point the law is most 
explicit. In fact in one of our great text books, a work 
recognized by the entire legal profession as the highest 
authority, I find a passage which seems almost to have 
been written for your enlightenment in this very case. 
I will read it to you : 

It does not follow that because a person is wounded 
and dies, the death is caused by the wound ; and the 
burden in such cases is on the prosecution to show be 
yond reasonable doubt that the wound in question pro 
duced death. It may happen also, where poison has 
been administered, that death resulted from natural 
causes. The presence of poison may be ascertained 
from symptoms during life, the post mortem appearances, 
the moral circumstances, and the discovery of the ex 
istence of poison in the body, in the matter ejected from 
the stomach, or in food or drink of which the sufferer 
has partaken. But to this should be added proof that the 
poison thus received into the system was the cause of 

" I think that passage most clearly indicates to you the 
task which the prosecution have undertaken. Upon 
what do they rely for the accomplishment of their pur 
pose ? Two things mainly. Circumstantial evidence, 
and expert testimony. And now, if I may hope for your 


close attention, I will say a few words upon both of 
these classes of evidence, in general. 

" Circumstantial evidence, I need hardly tell you, is 
most delusive in its character. Analyzed, what do we 
find it to be ? It has been truly argued that there is, and 
can be, no cause without an effect. In considering 
circumstantial evidence, the mind of the investigator is 
presented with the relation of a number of facts, or 
effects, and he is asked to deduce that they are all at 
tributable to a stated cause. For example, a peddler is 
known to have started out upon a lonely road, and to have 
in his pack certain wares, a given amount of money in 
specified coins and bills, wearing a watch and chain, 
and he is subsequently found murdered, by the wayside. 
Later, a tramp is arrested upon whose person is found the 
exact missing money, and many of the articles which were 
known to have been in the pack. He is charged with the 
crime, and the evidence against him is circumstantial. His 
possession of these articles is an effect, which is said 
to be attributable to a cause, to wit, the killing of the 
peddler. But strong as such evidence may appear, as 
I have said, it is delusive. For just as the prosecution 
ask you to believe that a number of effects are trace 
able to a single cause, the crime charged, so also it is 
possible that all of the effects may have resulted 
from various causes. Thus in the case cited, the 
tramp may have been a thief, and may have stolen the 
articles from the peddler after some other person had 
killed him. And if it could be shown that the watch and 


chain were missing, and yet were not found upon the 
tramp, that would be as good evidence in his favor, as 
the other facts are against him. So that in circumstan 
tial evidence the chain must be complete. If a single 
link be missing, or have a flaw, the argument is incon 
clusive, and a doubt is created, the benefit of which 
must invariably be given in favor of the accused. 

" If this be true where there is a single link that has a 
flaw, what are we to say when we find that the entire 
chain is composed of links which are faulty ? You are 
asked to decide that from this fact, and that fact, and 
the other fact, the accused is guilty of a crime ! Sup 
pose that we show that from either the first, or the 
second, or the third fact, we can trace back to other 
causes as producing the result ? Why, then, the 
prosecution s case is rendered so fragile " that the 
gentlest breath of a zephyr must blow each separate 
link to a different quarter of the globe. Now, that is 
what I shall endeavor to demonstrate ; that, from the 
chief facts claimed by the prosecution, you may deduce 
innocence rather than guilt. 

" First, we have the accuser, Dr. Meredith. He aids 
the prosecution s claim of poison by relating the symp 
toms of poisoning, which he says he observed before 
death. Now, even granting that this is a true statement 
of facts, observed by an unprejudiced mind, of which, 
gentlemen, you can readily judge, when you recall the 
abundant testimony as to an existing animosity, but, 
even granting its absolute truth, what does it show ? 


Simply that morphine had been administered, in a dose 
large enough to have produced antc-mortcm evidences 
of its presence. But what of that ? Does it show that 
the drug was administered by any particular person ? 
By Dr. Medjora, as the prosecution have claimed ? If 
so then I am ignorant, and ill informed as to all the 
rules of logic. It shows that morphine was present, 
and it shows no more, and no less. Now that fact we 
freely admit. The Doctor himself told you how the 
drug was taken, and there has been nothing whatever 
offered, that even tends to disprove his assertion. 
Thus, as his testimony is all that we have upon the 
subject, and as it has been unimpeached, you are bound 
to accept it as the only evidence available. I may also 
remind you at this point, that in this country, where the 
God-given liberty of one man is as much cherished as 
that of the whole people, a man is to be considered 
innocent until after he has been adjudged guilty. He 
therefore goes upon the witness stand, as unsullied as 
any other witness, and his evidence is entitled to the 
same credence. I may also interject a momentary 
remark as to the difference between juridical and com 
mon judgment. You may see a man commit a crime 
and if accepted upon the jury which tries him, although 
you know that he is guilty, you are bound to bring him 
in innocent, unless the evidence introduced against him 
proves his guilt, entirely aside from your own prejudices 
or prejudgment. You must give a juridical opinion 
only. So that if you have imbibed any prejudices 


against Dr. Medjora, which is scarcely probable, for he 
must have impressed you as favorably as he has every 
one else who has seen him in court, but if so, you are 
to set that all aside, and accept his unimpeached evi 
dence upon this point, relative to the administration of 
the morphine, as the only available evidence upon 
which to base an opinion. And if you do adopt that, 
and decide, as you necessarily would, that self-adminis 
tered morphine cannot implicate Dr. Medjora in this 
crime, why the case is ended at once, and need scarcely 
go any further. 

" However, merely as a matter of form, I will take 
up one or two more points. The second link in this 
circumstantial chain is that evidences of morphine 
were found at the autopsy. But, gentlemen, what of 
that ? You and I know how it entered the system, and 
of course we expect that eminent specialists, such as 
the gentlemen who performed the autopsy, must neces 
sarily recognize the recent presence of the drug. It 
forms no particle of proof whatever against Dr. Medjora. 
That we see clearly enough, when we eliminate the 
bare facts from the fog of misinterpretation. But I 
may casually remind you of another fact, which these 
same eminent specialists told us about. They found 
that the kidneys were atrophied, an evidence of disease, 
and later we learned that if the kidneys are diseased 
morphine is retained in the system, until a poisonous 
dose may accumulate. So we see that even if the 
deceased was poisoned to death, it was only by the 


retention of many doses, due to a diseased condition, 
and in no way attributable to criminal interference. 

" The next link is the actual presence of the drug, 
as testified by the expert chemists. They tell us that 
they found morphine. Why of course they did. It 
was in the system ; we knew that it was there ; and we 
are not at all shocked by the discovery. 

" But I need not take up any other of these forged 
links, for, as you plainly see, the principal ones are so 
very faulty that as they are the mainstay of the bonds 
that bind our client, we break them asunder with 
scarcely an effort. 

" Now, I will say a few words relative to expert testi 
mony, and I beg of you to understand throughout, that 
however I may attack this sort of evidence as a class, 
I speak in general terms only, and in no way cast any 
imputations against the scientific gentlemen who have 
appeared upon the stand, except as they come within 
the limitations of their class, as I am about to ex 
plain to you. 

" When expert testimony was first introduced it was 
received with marked respect. The expert witness was 
counted as a professor in his specialty, and his word 
was almost final. Experience, however, lias materially 
altered all this. The field from which the expert may 
be cited has been vastly broadened, whilst at the same 
time his testimony is accepted with much more caution, 
and less credence. The causes which have operated 
towards this state of things are manifold, but I need not 


explain them here. Wherever there is any sort of 
specialty, from the blacking of boots, to the highest 
scientific pursuits, we now have experts who go upon the 
stand, and dogmatically inform us that their opinions 
are the true and only accepted finality upon the subject 
presented. But we have found, that however positive 
one, or two, or three experts may be in asseverating 
what they claim to be a fact, an equal number, of 
equally scientific, equally experienced, and equally 
trustworthy experts, may be found whose testimony will 
be equally as positive, though diametrically opposed. 
Indeed, so true is this, that I may quote the wise words 
of that eminent jurist Lord Campbell, who says : 
4 Skilled witnesses come with such a bias on their minds 
to support the cause in which they are embarked, that 
hardly any weight should be given to their evidence. 
These are strong words, but what does Lord Campbell 
mean ? That an eminent scientist would go upon the 
witness stand, and perjure himself merely because he 
has been engaged to substantiate a given proposition ?1 
Not at all. Of all experts, I may be permitted to say 
perhaps, that the most eminent are those connected 
with the professions, for we must rank the professions 
higher than the arts, just as the arts are above the 
trades. We have three great professions, to wit, the 
Ministry, Medicine, and Law. If we could have before 
us the most prominent Minister, the most celebrated 
Physician, and the most eminent Lawyer, we would 
probably have three men standing equally high in public 


esteem. Then let us suppose that this most eminent 
lawyer were engaged as counsel in some great suit. 
Suppose that some intricate technicality of law should 
arise, upon which the presiding judge should ask for 
argument and precedents. Suppose, then, that associate 
counsel should place this most eminent lawyer upon 
the stand as an expert witness ? Remembering that he 
had been paid for advocating the cause in behalf of 
which he was testifying, how much weight would his 
evidence have ? I think you will agree that it would be 
very slight indeed ! Yet is it not the same with the 
expert physician ? Is not the skilled medical witness 
hired, and paid for his advocacy, just as that eminent 
lawyer was ? Then why should we discard the evidence 
of the one, and accept the other ? Neither of these 
gentlemen commits perjury. What they tell, is honestly 
told. But and, gentlemen of the jury, I now come to 
the vital point of this argument the expert does not 
give us an unbiased opinion. The reason is plain. As 
experts can be found with varying opinions, so those are 
sought whose opinions agree with the position which 
they are called to sustain. To be more definite, the 
experts called by the prosecution in this case, were 
called, because it was known in advance what they would 
testify, and because said testimony would be favorable 
to the hypothesis of the prosecution. Though, I may 
say parenthetically, in this case it has proven otherwise. 
But, stated on general principles, that is the fact. The 
prosecution chooses experts, whose views can be relied 


upon to support the charge against the prisoner. And I 
must candidly confess that the defence is actuated simi 
larly. Surmising in advance what the opposing experts 
would tell us, we went about amongst equally eminent 
men, and found no difficulty in selecting those who could 
with equal positiveness, with equal authority, and with 
equal experience and knowledge, support our hypothe 
sis. Had we found a gentleman who entertained views 
similar to those of the prosecution s witnesses, do you 
suppose, for one moment, that we would have engaged 
such a man to aid us ? Of course not ! Then are the 
lawyers for the prosecution any more human than we ? 
Do you suppose that they would call an expert, if they 
knew that his honest opinions would controvert their 
claims ? Certainly not. Were they not loath to call 
Dr. Fisher? Thus, gentlemen, have we discov 
ered, by analytical reasoning, the cause of the bias 
existing in the mind of an honest man. His opinion is 
sought in advance. If favorable he is engaged. When 
engaged he becomes a hired advocate, as much as the 
lawyer. Moreover, unlike the witness of facts, his testi 
mony is tinged by a personal interest. He knows that 
celebrated experts will oppose his views. His reputation 
is on trial, as it were. If the verdict is for his side, it is 
a sort of juridical upholding of his position. He is 
therefore arrayed against his antagonists, as much as the 
lawyers of the opposing sides. In short, having once 
expressed an opinion, he will go to any extreme almost, 
to prove that he is right. The questions asked by the 


counsel for his side, the majority of which he prepares 
or dictates himself, are glibly and positively answered. 
But when the cross-examination begins, what do we see ? 
An interesting spectacle from a psychological stand 
point. We see a man, honest in his intentions, 
standing between two almost equal forces ; the love of 
himself and of his own opinions, on the one side, and 
upon the other the love of scientific truth which is 
inherent in all truly professional men. When a question 
is asked, to which he can reply without injury to his 
pronounced opinion, how eagerly he answers. But when 
a query is propounded, which his knowledge shows him 
in a moment, indicates a reply which his quick intelli 
gence sees will be against his side, what does he do ? 
We find that he fences with the question. As anxious 
not to state what he knows to be false, as he is not to 
injure his side of the case, he parries. He tells you in 
hesitating tones, It may be so, in rare cases, Other 
men have seen and reported such instances, but I have 
not met them, It might be possible under extraordi 
nary circumstances, but not in this case, and so on, and 
so on, reluctant to express himself so that he may be 
cited afterwards. You have witnessed this very kind of 
evasion in this case, so that you readily grasp my mean 
ing. When I asked Professor Orton, whether the action 
of morphine is modified by disease, his answer was, It 
might be ; and when I asked him whether, from con 
tinual dosage, it could accumulate in the system, he said, 
The records contain reports of such cases. When I 


asked him if morphine would not be so retained where 
Bright s disease were present, he tried evasion again by 
saying, I have never seen such a case, after which he 
admitted that he had read of them in good authorities. 

" As I have told you, speaking generally, this sort of 
evasion under cross-examination is a peculiarity common 
to nearly all experts, so that in singling out Professor 
Orton as an example, I do so with no intention of at 
tacking his honesty of purpose. He was simply defend 
ing himself, and upholding the side which pays him for 
his advocacy. But I choose this testimony because if 
we analy/e it I think we will find more, much more than 
appears at a glance ; and I can at the same time show 
you how all expert testimony should be received. I will 
exemplify the amount of caution to be displayed in 
accepting what a skilled witness tells. I will show you 
principally, that what the expert testifies under cross- 
examination is more likely to be true, than what he tells, 
the friendly lawyer on his own side. 

" Now, when I asked Professor Orton whether 
Bright s disease would act as a cause to facilitate the 
accumulation of morphine in the system, he answered, 
I have never seen such a case. That, gentlemen, is 
the set of words which I beg of you to analyze. Why 
did the Professor use just this language ? For, mark 
you, it is a well-studied answer. Let us suppose that 
this eminent toxicologist had made an exhaustive series 
of experiments, which had proved, beyond all cavil, that 

the commonly accepted idea among physicians is wrong, 


and that Bright s disease will not effect an accumulation 
of morphine. How gladly would he have said No to 
my question ! How positively would he have asserted 
that Bright s disease would not have the effect which we 
claim ! Therefore, that he does not use any such dog 
matic denial shows logically and conclusively that he 
has no such knowledge. He does not know, beyond all 
doubt, that Bright s disease will not modify the action 
of this poison. But we can see more in this answer. 
Suppose that, lacking absolute knowledge, he had still a 
firm conviction. He would then most probably have 
said, It is my opinion that Bright s disease does not 
modify the drug s action. But, gentlemen, he had not 
even a conviction of this kind. On the contrary, he 
must either have known, or else have leaned towards the 
belief that such an accumulation is possible, otherwise 
he would not have said just what he did say : I have 
not seen such a case. I have not seen such a case ! 
Why, the very words suggest that such a case has ex 
isted. More that the Professor had heard of such 
cases, and believed in them. Perhaps he hoped that 
this evasive answer would be accepted as final. In that 
case, gentlemen, it might have served, in your minds, as 
well as a negative reply. But, gentlemen, a lawyer s 
mind is necessarily trained to the quick appreciation of 
situations like this. As soon as he had said that he had 
never seen such a case, I was prompted by intuition to 
ask if he had not heard of them. Then the fat was in 
the fire, and we had an admission, however reluctantly 


given, that he had heard of them, and from competent 
authority. But the very attempt on the part of this wit 
ness to parry the question, and evade a full and truthful 
reply, carries a conviction with it, that he recognized 
immediately the importance of our claim, and the possi 
bility that it is a true explanation of the sad death of 
this young wife. He saw at once that all the damning 
evidences of the presence of poison, are explainable by 
this simple hypothesis, that Bright s disease might cause 
otherwise proper doses of morphine to accumulate until 
a lethal dose be present, and then act to destroy life. He 
therefore attempted to belittle the hypothesis. He could 
not refute it ; he scarcely dared to deny it as a possi 
bility, and therefore he essayed evasion. 

Thus we may deduce more from the reluctant ad 
mission of an expert, than from their glibly-told tales 
which have been rehearsed in the office of the District 
Attorney. So that, after all, expert testimony is valua 
ble most valuable if we but consider it with caution, 
and analyze it, until bereft of bias and prejudice, the 
grain of truth stands out, as truth ever will, conspicuous 
midst the mass of extraneous matter surrounding it, much 
of which is introduced for the express purpose of befog 
ging your minds, and leading you away from the facts. 
Thus, gentlemen, upon closer examination we find 
that just as their circumstantial evidence was faulty, so 
the prosecution s experts prove a boomerang. For it is 
upon their evidence that we mainly rely for acquittal. 
Dr. McDougal, the Coroner s physician, examined the 


kidneys at the autopsy, and freely expressed the opinion 
that Bright s disease had been present. Of course he 
denied that this disease had caused death, but there we 
have the opinion of an advocate. Next we have Pro 
fessor Orton, who, as I have shown, practically testifies 
that Bright s disease may cause morphine to accumulate 
in the system until a poisonous dose has resulted. Is 
not that enough, gentlemen, to satisfy you that, if this 
girl died of morphine, she died a natural death, and 
was not murdered ? At least, does it not raise a doubt 
in your minds, which must be credited to Dr. Medjora, 
and which would deter you from sending him to the 
hangman ? I am so positive that it must, that I will 
close this appeal, without calling your attention to the 
evidence, which has been abundant, and which indicates 
that death was not the result of poisoning at all, but of 
diphtheria, as indeed was certified in the burial permit. 
I could go over all the evidence in greater detail, but I 
am so strongly impressed with the innocence of our 
client, and so firmly confident that you are as capable as 
I am of reaching a proper conclusion in considering the 
evidence, that I will not take up more of your time, but 
leave our cause now in your care, satisfied that, regard 
less of the able rhetorical ability of the gentleman on the 
other side, you will be guided by Providence, and your 
own hearts, to aid the cause of justice and release Dr. 
Medjora from his present trying situation. And as you 
deal justly with him now, so may you receive your reward 
in the life hereafter." 



THE District Attorney himself arose to speak for the 
commonwealth. " May it please your Honor and gentle 
men of the jury," he began, "you have just heard an 
able argument in behalf of the prisoner. Counsel has 
told you truly, that in this free Republic, which has 
become the refuge and asylum for the oppressed of all 
nations, the liberty of one man is as sacred as the rights 
of the whole people. He has also used the well-worn 
argument that the prisoner should have your sympathy, 
because of the weakness of his position. By this is 
meant, that the State; having wealth, can engage prose 
cuting officers of ability, whilst the prisoner, thrown 
upon his private resources, may be compelled to in 
trust his cause to the care of inferior counsel. But, 
gentlemen, you must see at a glance that our learned 
opponent has weakened his own argument by the unusual 
display of ability which he has exhibited in this case. 
Surely in his hands the cause of the prisoner is emi 
nently safe ! The commonwealth, with all its resources, 
cannot summon greater legal ability to its aid. There 
fore you may relieve your minds of any idea of pity for 



the prisoner, and omitting all thought of him personally, 
decide this case entirely on the evidence. 

" But if you find it difficult to disregard the fact that 
here is a man, whose liberty or life is at stake, then I 
bid you remember, that whilst it is true that his rights 
are equal to those of the State, they are no greater. The 
commonwealth must have equal place, in your judgment, 
with the prisoner. 

" As the prosecuting attorney I stand in a somewhat 
peculiar position. In ordinary lawsuits, opposing coun 
sel are retained by the various sides, and are arrayed 
against each other solely. Under such circumstances 
the able arguments of Mr. Bliss would hold sway. I am 
alluding now to his attack upon expert witnesses. Let 
us suppose that a suit is brought to overthrow a will, the 
plaintiff arguing that the signature has been forged. 
Experts in chirography are called by both sides. It is 
manifest, as Mr. Bliss has said, that the opinions of ex 
perts will be sought by the contending counsel, and at 
the trial we would have those favoring the theory, forgery, 
testifying to that effect, whilst the others would support 
the genuineness of the signature. Undoubtedly, also, 
had either of these gentlemen expressed a different opin 
ion prior to the trial, he would have been found upon 
the opposite side. Or, in plainer words, the men are 
hired to testify, because, previous to the trial, they hold 
an opinion favorable to the side which pays them. 
Thus, as has been shown to you at some length, emi 
nent jurists now accord but cautious credence to expert 


testimony, because of the bias which must attend paid 
advocacy. But, gentlemen of the jury, as logical as all 
this is, when applied to a civil suit, it becomes but the 
most specious reasoning when introduced into a criminal 
case, such as this. 

" We are often led astray by arguments, which contain 
analogies which are but apparently analogous. In this 
case there is a flaw at the very root of the argument, 
and therefore the very flower and fruit of the whole 
beautiful array of words must wilt and fail. 

" This flaw is easily pointed out. In the civil case, as 
I have said, and as you know, opposing counsel defend 
but the side that pays them. In a criminal case it is 
entirely different. The District Attorney is engaged, 
not for a special case, against a special prisoner, but by 
the whole community, for the protection of all the peo- 
pie. Now the prisoner is himself one of these, and his 
rights are ever in the minds of the very men who prepare 
the arguments against him. Let us glance for a moment 
at the modus opcrandi. Suspicion is aroused against a 
man. If sufficiently grave, the first bits of evidence 
attainable are presented to the Grand Jury, and perhaps 
they find an indictment. This gives the State author 
ity to hold the prisoner by arrest, until such time when 
he may be tried. But, gentlemen of the jury, are all 
indicted men tried ? Not at all. The District Attorney 
not infrequently, in the course of preparing a case, finds 
that an error has been made : that the man is the vic 
tim of circumstances : in short that he is innocent. 


What occurs then ? Does he act the part of the hired 
lawyer and proceed, merely that he may collect a fee ? 
Not at all. He protects the rights of the prisoner, as 
one of the people, and by due process of law the man is 
released from custody, free from even a stain upon his 

" Now let us for a moment suppose that the charge is 
one of murder ; of murder by poisoning, let us say. The 
first step is to place the medical investigation of the 
facts into the hands of eminent experts. Here we find 
that the very resources of the commonwealth become the 
prisoner s greatest safeguard. The State having abun 
dance of money, places this investigation into the care 
of the very ablest men to be obtained. It is not at all 
true, that these experts are retained because of their 
known opinions. When they are retained, they have 
no opinions whatever, because they are engaged to pur 
sue an investigation, and their opinions are non-existent 
until after the conclusion of their analyses. Now, gen 
tlemen, imagine that the commonwealth s counsel would 
be base enough to dispense with an expert witness, 
because his testimony would be detrimental to the hy 
pothesis of the prosecution, would such a course be 
possible ? Not at all. In the first place, the autopsy and 
the chemical analyses have been made upon the tissues 
of the body of the deceased. In the course of this work 
these tissues are rendered useless for any further analy 
ses. Therefore, the only investigation possible is the 
original one, and the only expert opinions obtainable 


are those of the men, who, as I have shown, are engaged 
long before they have any opinion to express. If these 
men were omitted from the case then no experts could 
be called to replace them ; but what would be worse, 
these very witnesses, discarded by the prosecution, 
would immediately be retained by the defence. For, 
as Mr. Bliss has candidly admitted, the defence only 
engages experts whose opinions are known to be favora 
ble. That is the difference between the paid experts of 
the defence, and those engaged by the prosecution. The 
one is an advocate for a fee, whilst the other is merely 
an independent outsider, who relates the medical facts 
which he has found upon examination of the body of 
the deceased, and then explains the scientific deduc 
tions which he makes from these facts. The witness of 
the defence is biased ; the witness of the prosecution is 
not. No, gentlemen of the jury, when the experts for 
the prosecution form opinions which oppose the idea of 
a crime, the District Attorney has but one course which 
he can pursue. He must protect the prisoner, as it is 
his sworn duty to do, and obtain his release. 

" But per contra, when these eminent medical men 
discover, within the tissues of the deceased, plain evi 
dences of the fact that a crime has been consummated, it 
then becomes the duty of the District Attorney to prose 
cute the accused, and to produce, before a jury of his 
countrymen, the evidence which these gentlemen of 
science have discovered. And this class of evidence is 
not only valuable, and pertinent, but it is indispensable. 


Without the assistance of experts, it would be almost 
impossible to convict a man of murder, by the use of 
poison. The pistol, the knife, and other weapons, all 
leave wounds discernible by the eyes of all. But 
poison works insidiously, and is unseen. As deadly as 
the bullet, it operates not only without noise, but in 
skilful hands the death may simulate that caused by 
known diseases, so that even eminent physicians might 
sign a burial permit, as did Dr. Fisher in this case, 
without a suspicion of the presence of the poison. But 
suspicion having been aroused, by the aid of science it 
is now possible to search microscopically into the tissues 
of the victim, and find every trace of poison if one has 
been used. And if, gentlemen, able men of science, 
prominent in their specialties, and honored by their pro 
fessional brethren as well as by the community in which 
they dwell, make an impartial investigation of this 
nature, and report to you that they have found poison 
actually present, and in quantities which would have 
proved fatal, I submit it to yqur intelligence, gentlemen, 
is not that expert testimony of the most important char 
acter ? Can we assail such evidence with the cry of 
bias, merely because it comes within the general cate 
gory of expert testimony? Certainly not. You will 
therefore forget entirely the anathema which Mr. Bliss 
has delivered against experts, for though true enough 
against the class, it does not apply in this instance. 

" Before dismissing this phase of the subject, I must say 
a few words in defence of Professor Orton. Mr. Bliss 


pointed out to you that when an expert is replying to 
direct examination he answers readily, whereas, when 
answering the cross-examining lawyer, he is more cau 
tious. This is true ; but, gentlemen, what does that 
signify ? Simply that having told the truth, the witness 
is compelled to defend himself against the traps that 
will be set for him by the opposite side. He knows in 
advance that he will be assailed by hypothetical and 
ambiguous questions, worded to confuse him, and to 
mystify the jury. Under these circumstances, therefore, 
he must necessarily think well, before replying. He is 
in a court of law, under oath, and his professional repu 
tation is at stake. If he were not cautious in his replies 
he would be worthless as a witness. He is justified, too, 
in parrying questions which he knows are introduced 
merely to disguise the truth, or to lead the minds of 
the jury into wrong channels. Mr. Bliss has made 
much, or thinks that he has made much, of the answers 
which Professor Orton gave. By specious reasoning he 
tries to prove that Professor Orton believed that this 
woman died of an accumulation of morphine, caused 
by a diseased condition of the kidneys. Mr. Bliss tells 
us that he rests his case upon the evidence of our 
witnesses, and largely upon this admission from Professor 
Orton. Now, as a matter of fact, what Professor Orton 
did say cannot help the prisoner. He admitted that 
other men have held the opinion that diseased kidneys 
may cause an accumulation of morphine. But, gentle 
men, how does that effect this case ? This very witness, 


upon whom Mr. Bliss is willing to rely, tells us that what 
ever the possibilities might be in other cases, it is his 
positive belief that this particular woman did not die 
as claimed by the defence. He found poison in the 
stomach in considerable quantities, whereas, where 
death occurs by a slow accumulation, the drug would 
have passed beyond that organ, and none would have 
been found there. So that we see, that what might be, 
and what perhaps has been in the past, has no bearing 
on this case even inferentially, because the same expert 
who says it is possible in other cases, tells us plainly 
that it did not occur in this instance. 

" And now, before speaking of the actual evidence in 
this case, let me say a few words in regard to circum 
stantial evidence. It has been common practice for 
counsel defending criminal cases to inveigh against 
circumstantial evidence, until a suspicion has been 
engendered in the public mind, that it is of dubious 
value. Indeed, the people, knowing a little law, and 
understanding that all reasonable doubt must be 
accorded to the prisoner, and, further, having imbibed 
the idea that all circumstantial evidence contains a 
doubt, have come almost to feel that a conviction 
obtained by such means is a miscarriage of justice. 

" This is entirely erroneous. All evidence is divided 
arbitrarily into two great classes, direct and circumstan 
tial. I do not here allude to documentary evidence, 
which is somewhere between the two, the validity of the 
document being necessarily proved by one or the other. 


This classification, as I say, is arbitrary, for he would 
indeed be a wise man who could tell us exactly where 
direct evidence ceases to be direct, or where circum 
stantial evidence becomes solely circumstantial. The 
two are so interdependent, that it is only by extreme 
examples that we can dissociate them. All direct 
evidence must be sustained by circumstances, whilst all 
circumstantial evidence is dependent upon direct facts. 
" Let me give you an example of each, that this may 
be more clear to your minds. Let us suppose that 
several boys go to a pool of water to swim. One of 
these is seen by his companions to dive into the water, 
and he does not arise. His death is reported, and the 
authorities, later, drag the pool and find a body. This 
is called direct evidence. The boy was seen to drown, 
you are told, and your judgment concedes the fact 
readily. Ikit is the proposition proved, even though 
\ou have these several witnesses to the actual drowning ? 
Let us see. The body is taken to the morgue, and the 
keeper there, an expert in such matters, makes the 
startling assertion that instead of a few hours, or let us 
say a day, the body must have been immersed for several 
days. This is circumstantial evidence. The keeper 
has no positive knowledge that this particular body has 
been under water so long. Still he has seen thousands 
of bodies, and none has presented such an appearance 
after so short an interval. How shall we judge between 
such conflicting evidence ? On the one side we have 
direct evidence which is most positive. On the other we 


have circumstantial evidence which is equally so. Is the 
original hypothesis proven ? Does not the circumstan 
tial evidence raise a doubt ? Certainly. Now let us 
take another step. The witnesses to the drowning are 
called again, and view the body, and now among ten of 
them, we find one who hesitates in his identifica 
tion. At once we find another circumstance want 
ing in substantiation of the original claim. Now we 
see, that all that was really proved was, that a boy was 
drowned, and not at all that it was this particular boy 
who was found. But is this even proved ? How can it 
be, in the absence of the drowned body ? Now suppose 
that, at the last hour, the original boy turns up alive, 
and reports that he had been washed ashore down the 
stream and subsequently recovered. We find that our 
direct evidence, with numerous witnesses to the actual 
fact, was entirely misleading after all, because we had 
jumped to a conclusion, without duly considering the 
attendant circumstances of the case. So it is always. 
This is no case manufactured to point an argument. 
There is no such thing as positive proof, which does 
not depend upon circumstances. The old example may 
be cited briefly again. If you see one man shoot at 
another and see the other fall and die, can you say 
without further knowledge, that one killed the other ? 
If you do, you may find later that the pistol carried 
only a blank cartridge, and that the man died of fright. 
" It is equally true of circumstantial evidence, that 
without some direct fact upon which it depends it is 


worthless. As an example of this, I may as well save 
your time by introducing the case at issue. If we could 
show you that the prisoner desired the death of this 
girl ; that he profited by her death ; that he had a 
secret in connection with her child which he can keep 
from the world better, now that she is dead ; that she 
died under circumstances which made the attending 
physician suspect morphine poisoning ; that as soon as 
the suspicion was announced, the prisoner mysteriously 
disappeared, and remained in hiding for several days ; 
that he had the opportunity to administer the poison ; 
that he understood the working of the drug ; and other 
circumstances of a similar nature, the argument would 
be entirely circumstantial. All this might be true and 
the man might be innocent. But, selecting from this 
array of suspicious facts, the one which indicates mor 
phine as the drug employed, and then add to it the fact 
that expert chemists actually find morphine in the tis 
sues of the body, and you see, gentlemen, that at once 
this single bit of direct evidence gives substantial form 
to the whole. The circumstantial is strengthened by 
the direct, just as the direct is made important by the 
circumstantial. The mere finding of poison in a body, 
though direct evidence as to the cause of death, neither 
convicts the assassin, nor even positively indicates that 
a murder has been committed. The poison might have 
reached the victim by accident. But consider the at 
tendant circumstances, and then we see that a definite 
conclusion is inevitable. It is from the circumstantial 


evidence only that we can reach the true meaning of 
what the direct testimony teaches. 

" So we come at last to find that evidence is evidence, 
and that all evidence is important, and may prove con 
vincing. This is true, without regard to the technical 
classification. Leave classification to the lawyers, gen 
tlemen. You have but to weigh all that has been of 
fered to you as relevant, and bearing upon the issue. 
Be assured, the Recorder would not have admitted any 
extraneous matter. You are not to cast aside anything 
that you have heard, merely because Mr. Bliss tells you 
that it is delusive. It is not delusive. On the contrary, 
all is very clear, as I shall now demonstrate to you. 

" I will take up the chain of evidence much in the same 
order as did Mr. Bliss. First, then, we have Dr. Mere 
dith. Mr. Bliss hints to you that he is a prejudiced 
witness, but whilst I might argue that a man must be 
more than a villain to falsely accuse another of murder, 
I need go into no defence of this witness, because it has 
been freely admitted that his testimony is true. Mr. 
Bliss argues that all that can be deduced from what Dr. 
Meredith tells us, is that morphine was present in quan 
tity sufficient to show toxic symptoms. Now that is all 
that we care to claim from this witness. He recognized 
morphine poisoning prior to death, but Mr. Bliss at 
tempts to belittle the value of this by the hypothesis that 
the drug was self-administered. He calls your attention 
to the statements of the prisoner to this effect, and tells 
you to believe him. On this subject I will speak again 


in a moment. The principal thing at this point is, do 
they ask us to believe that the girl died from diphtheria, 
or did she die of poison, regardless of how she received 
it ? They do not choose between these two queries, but 
ask you to say either that she died of diphtheria, or, if 
of poison, that it was self-administered. It rests with 
you, gentlemen, then, to decide this weighty point. As 
to diphtheria, we have the report of the experts against 
it. Dr. Meredith declared, even before her death, that 
she was dying from poison. The autopsy showed that 
the cause of death was poison. The chemical analysis 
shows morphine in a poisonous dose, which is declared 
to be more than three grains. True, Dr. Fisher, a 
witness who was forced upon the prosecution, declares 
that diphtheria caused the death, but this is in contra 
diction to the opinion of all the others, and though hon 
estly offered, no doubt, may be accounted for by the 
natural desire to substantiate the statement made in the 
death certificate. But this same witness tells us later 
that exactly three and a half grains of morphine is miss 
ing from his medicine-case, the one from which the de 
fence admits that the morphine was taken. We find also 
that the defence seem to lay more stress upon explain 
ing the death by morphine, than upon any effort to prove 
that diphtheria killed this girl. 

" I think, then, that, with no injustice to the accused, 
you may adopt the pet theory of the defence, and con 
clude that this girl died of morphine poisoning. But, 

gentlemen, 1 shall now even admit more than that. Let 


us grant that a diseased kidney will cause accumulation 
of morphine, and that this girl had such a disease. 
More than that, let us admit that she had taken a con 
siderable quantity of morphine prior to her illness, and 
that a large portion of it was held secreted in some part 
of her body. Now, what is the situation on that last 
evening of her life ? She has been ill for several days 
with diphtheria, but she is recovering. She is so far 
convalescent that the senior physician deems it unnec 
essary for him to see her again that night. She also has 
slight kidney trouble, and she has some morphine stored 
up in her system ; an amount, however, which has been 
tolerated throughout the attack of diphtheria, when 
vitality was at its lowest ebb, but which has neither 
acted fatally, nor even affected her so that symptoms of 
its presence attracted the attention of the doctors. 

" Gentlemen of the jury, now follow me closely if you 
please. We can often bring witnesses to a murder 
where a weapon is used, but rare indeed is it that the 
poisoner is actually seen at his deadly work. But, by a 
singular act of Providence, that is what happened here. 
The prisoner arrived at that house that night, and dis 
missed the trained nurse. Observe that this occurs 
precisely upon the night when the patient has been de 
clared to be convalescent. Here, then, is this man, a 
physician himself, alone in the presence of a weak 
woman. Does not this surely indicate to you that he 
had the opportunity to commit the foul deed ? Suppos 
ing that he wished to rid himself of this girl, how gladly 


would he have awaited for her death by natural causes ? 
How willingly have seen the dread diphtheria remove 
her from his path, and save his soul from the stain of 
crime ? But no ! It was not to be ! On this night, his 
skilled eye saw what the other doctors had seen. The 
girl would recover ! If she was to die, it must be by 
his hand. Now how should he accomplish it ? By 
what means rid himself of the girl, and be safe from 
the hangman himself. Here the diabolical working of a 
scientific mind reveals itself. As he has told fts he well 
knew her condition. He knew that she had kidney 
disease. He knew that she had been taking morphine, 
and readily guessed that some of the deadly drug was 
still stored up in her system. If he administered mor 
phine to this poor woman, infatuated alike with the drug 
and with him, she would not offer the slightest remon 
strance. No cry would escape her lips as the deadly 
needle punctured her fair flesh. Loving him and trust 
ing him, she would yield to his suggestion, and so go 
into the last sleep. But what of the after effects ? He 
certainly would think of that ? Why, certainly ! The 
girl would die of coma, and the attending physicians, if 
summoned in time, would say that she died of anaemia 
caused by diphtheria. Or, even if suspicion were 1 
aroused, it might be claimed afterwards, just, gentlemen, 
as it has been claimed, that the drug was self-adminis 
tered, and was not enough in itself to have proven fatal. 
He knew that the autopsy would substantiate his claim 
of kidney trouble, and that the toxicologists would ad- 


mil the effect upon morphine. But more than all, being 
himself something of an expert in all branches of medi 
cal science, and especially in chemistry, he could almost 
to a nicety gauge the quantity of the drug which would 
be required, which of itself might not prove fatal to a 
morphine habitue, but which would compass her death 
when added to what was already in her system. Chance 
seemed to favor his horrible design, for Dr. Fisher had 
left his syringe, and a supply of the drug. See this 
fiend, this scientific wife murderer, measure out and 
prepare the lethal dose ! See him pierce the yielding 
flesh and inject the deadly drug, and then, lo ! Provi 
dence brings upon the scene a witness to the deed ! The 
nurse returns unexpectedly and sees, gentlemen, mark 
my words, actually sees this man in the act of using the 
hypodermic syringe ! 

" What can he do ? He knows that it would be 
hazardous to deny the testimony of this trained nurse. 
Therefore he admits what she tells us, and then ingeni 
ously invents the explanation that he was removing the 
syringe, but had not made the injection. But I submit 
it to you, gentlemen, is that a probable tale ? If this 
girl had time to prepare the drug, to fill the syringe, to 
pierce her flesh, to inject the drug, would she not have 
been able to remove it herself ? Does it take ten min 
utes to withdraw a needle ? Or five minutes, or one 
minute ? Or one second, gentlemen ? Can you even 
compute the brief moment of time in which the with 
drawal could have been effected ? Mr. Bliss told you 


that the testimony of the accused must he final on this 
point. That until he is convicted of crime his word is 
as acceptable as that of any other witness. This may be 
a presumption of law, gentlemen, but it is a still greater 
presumption on the part of counsel to ask such intelli 
gent men as you are, to believe that a murderer, or even 
an innocent man, would not perjure himself to save his 
life ! .Such things are told in romance, but we know 
that in actual life the most scrupulous of us all, will lie 
unhesitatingly if life itself be the stake. 

" Thus, gentlemen, the whole thing comes to this. It 
matters not how much morphine this woman had taken 
herself, prior to her illness ; it matters not how dis 
eased were her kidneys : the cause of her death was that 
last dose of morphine, and you have to decide whether 
this man administered it as the nurse tells us, or whether 
the weak convalescent mixed and prepared the drug, 
and then injected it herself. We claim that Dr. Med- 
jora administered that last dose, and that by that act he 
committed the crime of murder. And remember this, 
that if you decide that he administered that morphine, 
your verdict must be murder in the first degree, for 
having denied that he gave the drug at all, he cannot 
claim now that he gave it with no intention to destroy 
life. Gentlemen, you are the final arbiters in this 

The Recorder immediately charged the jury, but 
though he spoke at considerable length, I need scarcely 
give his speech here, as it was chiefly an explanation 


of the law. He was eminently impartial in all that he 
said, and it was surprising, therefore, how many objec 
tions and exceptions were entered by the defence. At 
1 last the jury was sent out, and the long wait began. The 
hours passed slowly and still those present remained in 
their seats, loath to risk being absent when the verdict 
should be announced. 

It was nearly ten o clock at night, and the jury had 
been out five hours, when word was sent in, that a ver 
dict had been found. The Recorder a few moments 
later resumed his seat, and the jury filed in. After the 
usual formalities, the foreman arose and announced the 
following verdict; 

" We find the prisoner, Dr. Emanuel Medjora, not 

The words were received almost in silence by all 
present. Above the stillness a deep sol) was heard at 
the farther end of the room. This had escaped from the 
tightly compressed lips of Madame Cora Corona. 




" LEON ! Leon ! " 

The cry was low and weak, and the suffering woman 
fell back upon her pillow. The youth, though asleep, 
heard, and quickly responded to the call. He had been 
sitting in the large arm-chair, beside a rude wooden 
table, upon which stood a common glass lamp, with red 
wick, whose flickering flame shed but a dim ray across the 
well-thumbed pages of a book which lay open. While 
reading under such unfavorable circumstances, the boy 
had slumbered, his mind drifting slowly toward dream 
land, yet not beyond the voice of the sufferer. She had 
scarcely repeated his name, when he was kneeling beside 
her, speaking in a voice that was tender and solicitous. 

" What is it, mother ?" he asked. 

" Nothing," was the reply. 

" Do you wish to drink ? " 


" Are you in pain ? " 



" Yes. But no matter." 

" Will you take your medicine ? " 

" No. Leon, I want to tell you something." 

" Not to-night, mother. You must sleep to-night. 
To-morrow you may talk." 

" Leon, when I sleep to-night, it will be forever." 

" Do not talk so, mother. You are nervous. Perhaps 
the darkness oppresses you. I will turn up the light." 

He did so, but the lamp only spluttered, flaring up 
brighter for a moment, only to burn as dull as before. 

" You see," said the old woman, with a ghastly smile, 
" there will be no more light in my life." 

" Indeed there will be." 

" I tell you no ! " She spoke fiercely, and summoned 
all her waning energy to her aid, as she struggled to 
raise herself upon her elbow. Then, extending a bony 
finger in his direction and shaking it in emphasis of her 
words, she continued : " I tell you I am dying. Death 
is here ; in this room ; I see his form, and I feel his 
cold fingers on my forehead. Sh ! Sh ! Listen ! Do 
you not hear ? A voice from the darkness is calling 
Confess ! Confess ! Then with a feeble cry she 
dropped back, moaning and groaning as in anguish. 

" Mother ! Mother ! Lie still ! Do not talk so." Leon 
was much agitated by the scene which had just trans 
pired. The woman was quiet for a time, except that she 
sobbed, but presently she addressed him again. 

" Leon, I must talk. I must tell. But don t call me 


" Why not ? 

How frequently in life do we thus rush ruthlessly 
upon unsuspected crises in our fates ? Leon said these 
words, with no thought of their import, and with no 
foreboding of what would follow. How could he guess 
that from the moment of their utterance his life would 
be changed, and his boyhood lost to him forever, be 
cause of the momentousness of the reply which he 
invited ? 

When the woman spoke again, her voice was so low 
that the youth leaned down to hear her words. She 
said : 

" Leon, you have been a good son to me. But I am 
not your mother." Having spoken the words with a 
sadness in her heart, which found echo in the cadence 
of her voice, she turned her face wearily away from the 
youth, and waited for his reply. And he, though as 
tounded by what he had heard, did not at the time fully 
connect the words with himself, but recognized only the 
misery which their utterance had caused to the suffering 
woman. With gentleness as tender as a loving woman s, 
he turned her face to his, touched her lips with his, and 
softly said : 

" You are my mother ! The only mother that I have 
ever known ! " Oh ! The weakness of human kind, 
which, at the touch of a loving hand, the sound of a 
loving voice, yields up its most sacred principles ! 
This dying woman had lived from birth till now in a 
secluded New England village, and, imbibing her puri- 


tanical instincts from her ancestry, she almost deemed 
it a sin to smile, or show any outward sign of happiness. 
She had been a mother to this boy, according to her 
bigoted ideas ; she had been good to him in her own 
way ; but she had kissed him but once, and then he was 
going upon a journey. Yet now, as overcome by his 
intense sympathy, his long-suppressed love welled out 
from his heart toward her, with a happy cry she nestled 
close within his arms, and cried for joy, a joy that was 
hers for the first time, yet which might have illumined 
all her declining days, had she not brushed it away from 

A long silence ensued, presently broken by the woman, 
as she slowly related the following story. 

" Years ago, no matter how many, I was a pretty wo 
man, and a vain one. I had admirers, but I loved none 
as I loved myself. But at last one came, and then my 
( life was changed. I loved him, and I began to despise 
myself. For the more I saw and loved him, the less 
likely it seemed that he could love me. I used all my 
arts in vain. My prettiest frocks, my most coquettish 
glances, were all wasted on him. It seemed to me that 
I had not even made him see that I might be won, if he 
would woo. He went away, and I thought that I would 
never meet him again, for he had been but a summer 
visitor. My heart was broken, and besides my pride was 
hurt, for I suffered the bitterness of being taunted with 
my failure by my sisters. A year later, he came to me 
again. Several months before, I had gone to live in Bos- 


ton, but in some way he had found me out. To my sur 
prise, he told me that he knew that I loved him. He 
said that he had not offered me his love, because he was 
already married. Then he asked me to do him a favor. 
I gladly assented, without knowing what he would ask, 
for I would have sacrificed anything for him, I loved 
him so. The next day he brought me a beautiful baby 
boy. He told me it was his, that his wife was ill, and 
that he wished me to care for the baby for a year, whilst 
he went to Europe. I undertook the charge, without 
considering the consequences. I returned to the farm, 
bound to secrecy as to the child s parentage. Very soon 
I discovered that my friends shunned me, and then I 
learned that by taking you, Leon, I had lost my good 
name. Well ! I did not care. You were his baby ! You 
had his eyes, and so my heart grew hard against the 
world, but I determined to keep the baby whose fingers 
had already gripped my heart. Then, shut out from all 
friendships, scorned even by my sisters to Avhom I had 
refused to make any explanation, I began to pray that 
something, anything, would happen so that you should 
not be taken from me. My wicked prayer was answered, 
for later I learned that the young mother had died, and 
I was to continue caring for you. At first my joy was 
very great, but soon I recognized, that you were mine 
only because I had prayed for the death of your mother. 
The Lord had granted my wish, as an everlasting punish 
ment for my sinful longing. Thenceforward, however 
much I yearned to press you to my heart, I have not 


dared to do so. I have tried to accept the chastisement 
of the Lord with meekness of spirit. And so I have had 
my wish ! I have kept you with me, ever to be a re 
proach for my sin. But I thank the Lord, that at the 
end he has allowed me to have one full moment of happi 
ness. He has granted me the boon to see that my boy 
has learned to love me in spite of all my harshness. You 
have kissed me, Leon, and called me mother. Oh ! God ! 
Thy will be done ! " 

Then with a smile almost of beatitude, she sank down 
lower, and nestled closer to her long-denied love. Leon 
stooped and kissed her again, but did not speak. His 
heart was full, and his emotions rose within his breast, 
so that he felt a curious sensation of fulness in his 
throat, which warned him not to essay speech. 

In silence they remained so for a time, not computed 
by either. She was lost in thoughts such as have been 
aroused in many hearts by the poet s magic words, " It 
might have been ! " This boy was his, and might have 
been hers, if ! Ah ! What chasms have been bridged 
by these two letters, which form this little, mighty word ! 

Leon began to grasp, but slowly, all that the future 
would hold for him with the added knowledge granted 
to him this night. He pondered over the past, and re 
membering how stern had been his life, and how austere 
had been the manner of this woman who had been his 
mother, and adding up the sum of all, he wondered that 
he had found such love for her within his heart. For 
his love had been recognized by himself as suddenly as 


he had given fervent expression to it, when he embraced 
that mother who denied her motherhood. If the poet s 
words which I have quoted conceal a thought of sad 
ness within their meaning, what woe resides within the 
thought encompassed by those other words, " Too late ! " 
To both of these, the woman and the boy, the recog 
nition of the joys of love, had come too late. As this 
thought at last penetrated the mind of the dreaming 
youth, he started, awakening from his abstraction. At 
the same moment, the lamp flared up, flickered, and went 
out. Then as darkness enshrouded him, so deep that he 
almost felt it touch his brow, he shivered, and a long 
moan escaped him followed by an anguished cry : 

" Mother ! " 

At last he realized what he had heard. In two ways 
was he to lose what all good men hold dearest on this 
eartli : a mother. First, she denied the relationship ; 
second, she had told him that she was dying. No an 
swer came back to his cry. The woman in his arms 
made no sound. She did not stir. He leaned his ear 
against her heart. It had ceased to beat. She was 
dead. Her spirit had slipped away, unnoticed by the 
loving boy whose arms encircled her shrivelled form, but 
whose love full surely lighted her way up among the 
stars ! Up, to that mysterious realm, too vast for human 
thought, too limitless for human mind ; where the sinning 
and the sinless meet their deserts. However much of 
wrong or of error there had been in her life, in the 
moment of death she found true happiness ; and I am 


grateful to her for arousing the thought, that we may all 
end our lives in peace. And so I leave her. 

But the boy ? The youth now left to buffet with the 
world alone ? I will ask you to follow him as, with a 
heart crowded with anguish and resentment, he rushed 
bareheaded out into the night, and swiftly sped through 
the wood. For he is well worth following. He has 
reached an important epoch in his life, a turning point 
at which he abandons his boyish past and becomes a man. 

Could he have been asked why he ran, or whither, he 
would have found himself bewildered and at a loss for 
a reply. Yet it is easily explainable. His home-life 
had never been attractive to him, nor in any way satis 
fying to his temperament, which, indeed, as we shall see, 
was such that he was ever in ill-concealed rebellion against 
the restraints of his surroundings, which threatened to 
crush his intellectual yearnings. Nevertheless, it was his 
home, so endeared to him by long association, that the 
sudden realization of the complex idea, first, that he 
did love this home, and second that he w-ould now lose 
it forever, coming to him instantaneously, overwhelmed 

He felt a dull pain in his breast, which made him 
almost imagine that some heavy body had been thrust 
within his bosom, and weighed heavily against his heart, 
interfering with that vital organ, so that the blood 
coursed sluggishly, and the lungs were loath to do their 
duty. Thus stifling, though only in imagination, he was 
instinctively compelled to rush out into the air, which 


cooled the fever in his veins. He ran, impelled 
by a mysterious feeling akin to fear, yet not fear, which 
exists within the breasts of all mankind, however loudly 
one individual may declare himself exempt, and which 
is aroused when one is suddenly brought into the pres 
ence of the dead, alone, and for the first time. Leon 
had never seen death before, although he had of course- 
seen the dead, coffined and made ready for the grave. 
But he now passed through an entirely new experience. 
In one moment he held within his arms a living, breath 
ing being whom he loved ; and in the next he gazed 
upon a voiceless, senseless, shocking thing, and loathed 
it. It was from this thing, and from the house where 
this thing now lay, that he was running. But, as I have 
said, he did not know it at the time, and probably would 
have spurned the suggestion a day later. But, the fact 
remains that it was true. 

Where he was going, is explainable by a simpler course 
of analysis. He was going to the lake. He was going 
to his boat. He was going out upon the water away 
from the companionship of that dead thing on land. 
He was going out upon the water, to be alone, and to 
find solace in his loneliness. In this, he but followed 
involuntarily a habit which he had practised for several 
years. When his home-life had pressed most hardly 
upon him at times, he had slipped away from the little 
farm, and rowed his boat out upon the lake, for self- 
communion and comfort. So now, without realizing 
that he had chosen any special direction in his flight, 


or that he had any fixed purpose in his mind, he ran 
swiftly along the wood-choppers path, until at length 
he stopped panting on a bit of narrow beach. He 
stood silent for a moment, and then concluded to get 
his boat and go out upon the lake. Or rather, he thought 
that he formed this decision at that moment, but really 
it originated when he turned towards the lake, rather 
than towards the next neighbor. It was therefore not 
companionship, but solitude which he sought. 

Within five minutes he was rowing lustily across the 
mirror-like surface of Massabesic, out towards the 
widest portion. The day had been insufferably warm, 
it being mid-summer, but in this region the nights are 
usually cool. This night was balmy. Mars had ap 
peared, a glowing red ball, above the eastern horizon, 
early in the evening, and an hour later the almost full 
moon had climbed up high enough to shed her silver 
rays across the waters. Later still the breeze had died 
away, and slowly the bosom of the lake grew quiet, as 
though even the waters had drifted into slumberous re 
pose. When Leon started out in his boat, almost imme 
diately his ruffled soul recognized the influence of the 
deadly calm surrounding him, for though at first he 
dipped his oars deep, and rowed vigorously, making the 
light bark leap upward at every pull, before he had 
gone a quarter of a mile, he stroked his oars with les 
sening vehemence, and presently, as though thoroughly 
awed by the stillness, and fearful of creating the noise 
even of a ripple, he was straining every nerve to dip 


and withdraw his oars, and to move his boat along 
without a sound. After a few minutes of this, he slowly 
raised both oars, letting them rest across the gunwales 
until the last drop of water had dripped off, and the 
last series of circles caused thereby had disappeared, 
and then, with the care and delicacy of one who moves 
about a chamber where some loved one is asleep who 
must not be disturbed, he placed his oars gently in the 
boat, and sat motionless. 

Already Mars had almost reached the tops of the 
trees along the western banks, and, attracted by it, Leon 
gazed upon the planet until it disappeared. He had 
been still for ten minutes, and having recognized that 
all was quiet about him, and having abandoned his 
rowing, he was now mildly surprised to observe that his 
boat was in a totally different position ; that in fact he 
had drifted a long distance. This awakened him slightly 
from his reverie, ror here was a new bit of knowledge 
about a body of water with which he had been acquainted 
since his earliest recollection. He had never known, 
nor even suspected, that in a calm there could be a 
current. He endeavored to calculate by observation 
how fast he was moving ; but the task was difficult. He 
could readily discern that since abandoning his oars he 
had moved a hundred yards, but, however intently he 
gazed upon the shores, he could not detect that he was 
moving. He pondered over this for a time, and being 
of a philosophical turn of mind, and fond of speculating, 

he likened his position at the moment, to life in general. 


However little we suspect it, there is an unseen but 

potent energy which urges us forward towards the 

grave, and whatever follows death. 

This idea pleased him for a moment, for the analogy 
was a new one and original with himself, in so far, that 
he had never head it from another. Quickly, however, 
returning to the more practical problem, he determined 
to find a way to ascertain the rapidity with which his 
boat was moving. Placing a fishing-rod upright before 
him, and then closing one eye, gazing with the other at 
a conspicuous object along the horizon, immediately he 
could see, not only that he was moving, but that the 
motion was more rapid than he had suspected. Having 
thus satisfied the immediate and momentary questioning 
of an inquiring mind, his previous mental state, his lone 
liness and desolation, returned upon him with redoubled 
force. A moment later, Nature offered him another 
abstraction. Looking into the water he saw mirrored 
there the reflection of the moon. Not the stream of 
undulating silver over which poets have raved these 
many years, and which painters have fruitlessly essayed 
to convey to canvass, but the glorious, full, round orb 
itself. This he had never seen before, and he wondered 
why it should be. Almost as though in answer to his 
thought, a faint zephyr breathed across the surface of the 
waters, and beginning near the shores, the ripples rolled 
towards him, and with them brought the shimmering 
moonlight until all in a moment, the reflected orb had 
disappeared, and the usual silvery line of light replaced 


it. Thus he saw, that only water in motion will show 
the moonbeams, whilst a mirror, whether it be of glass, 
or the still bosom of the lake, reflects but the moon itself. 

Again he returned to the bitterness of his night s 
experience, and now, no longer attracted by the moon, 
and not caring how fast or whither he drifted, he lay 
back in his boat, pillowing his head upon a cushion 
on the seat in the stern, and gazed up into the sky thus 
oblivious of the landscape and so without an indication 
of his progress. 

His mind reverted to the house, and the dead woman. 
She was not his mother. Then who was she ? Or rather 
who was he ? She was, or had been, Margaret Grath, 
and he had thought that he was entitled to the name 
Leon Grath. But if she was not, or had not been, his 
mother, then plainly he had no right to her name. 
On considering this, he concluded that it was his 
privilege to call himself Leon, but the last name Grath, 
being obtainable legally only by inheritance, he must 
abandon. When the word " inheritance " crossed his 
thoughts, involuntarily a loud mocking laugh escaped 
him. And when the sonorous echoes laughed with him, 
he laughed again, and again. The drollery which 
aroused his mirth, was that, if a name might be inherited, 
why might not Margaret Grath have bequeathed hers 
to him ? Perhaps she might have mentioned it in her 
will ? But no ! A name is a heritage acquired at birth, 
whilst only chattels are included in an inheritance which 
follows a death. Evidently he was nameless, except 


that he might be called Leon, just as his collie answered 
to the name Lossy. This made him laugh again. For 
now he thought that his dog had fared better than him 
self, for he was called " The Marquis of Lossy," after 
MacDonald s Malcolm. Thus the collie was of noble 

blood, whilst he was only Leon, the child of nobody. 

As he reached this point, the moon dipped down below 
the western hill, the upper edge shedding its last rays 
across the boy and his boat, after which he was indeed 
enshrouded by the night. It seemed colder too, now 
that the orb had gone, and insensibly he felt in some 
way more alone. True, there were the stars, still twin 
kling in the firmament, but they seemed far away, like his 
own future. Still Leon dreamed on. 

As he could not lift the veil which parted him from 
what was to be, he wandered back in thought, recalling 
what had been. 

The Theosophist says that man has lived before upon 
this planet, inhabiting many corporeal forms, and drift 
ing through many earthly existences. The Sceptic 
cries : " Ridiculous ! but, granting the postulate, of 
what advantage is it to have lived before, or to live 
again, if in each earth-life I cannot recall those that 
have gone before?" Yet, without arguing for Theoso- 
phy, might I not remind this sceptic that he enjoys his 
life to-day, even though he might find it difficult to 
recall yesterday, or the day before, or a week, a month, 
a year ago? How many of us in looking backward over 
life s path, can summon up the phantoms of more than 


a few days? Days on which occurred some events of 
special moment ? 

The first landmark along his life s path, which stood 
out conspicuous among Leon s garnered memories, was 
his first visit to the church. Margaret Grath had 
dressed him in his brightest frock, curled his hair, and 
placed upon his head his newest bonnet. His heart had 
swelled with pride, as he trotted beside the tall, gaunt, 
New England woman, who walked with long strides, 
and held his hands, lest he should lag behind. But 
though his legs grew tired, he offered no rebellion, for he 
had often looked upon the red brick building, with 
wondering eyes, and his ears had oft been mystified at 
the tolling of the bell which swung and sounded, though 
moved by no hand that he could see, nor means that he 
could understand. He marvelled at the outside of the 
building, its steeple marking it a house apart from every 
other in the village, and he long had yearned to see it 
from within. On this day, to which his thought now 
turned, he had his wish. He followed Miss Grath down 
the aisle, clinging to her skirts, a little frightened at the 
people sitting straight and stiff, and he was rejoiced 
when he found himself at last on a comfortable cushion 
in the pew. The cushion was a treat-, being his first 
experience with such luxury, and confirmed his idea 
that the church was better than other houses. Pres 
ently he began to be accustomed to his surroundings, 
having viewed all the walls, the roof, the organ, and the 
pulpit, until his active mind was satisfied so far as con- 


cerned the building itself. Then he began to feel the 
silence, and he did not like it. He longed to speak, 
but did not dare, because when he timidly looked up, 
Miss Grath, catching his glance, scowled reproachfully, 
and looked straight before her. Small and young as he 
was, he had learned to know this woman with whom he 
lived, and he needed no more explicit warning to hold 
his tongue. So he sat still, adding to the silence which 
oppressed him. 

It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the preacher 
rise, and heard him speak ; and it was with a throb of 
intense joy that his heart warmed as the notes of the 
organ reached him for the first time in his life. Thence 
forward he was interested up to the point where the 
sermon began. The tiresome monotone in which this 
was delivered, and the impossibility of his comprehend 
ing what was said, soon fatigued his little brain, and then 
lulled him to sleep. 

I may mention parenthetically, what of course did 
not now enter Leon s mind, for he never knew the sub 
ject of that first sermon which had been preached at 
him. If it had been incomprehensible to the child, the 
woman had understood well enough, for it had been 
aimed at her especially. The preacher, I cannot call 
him a minister, for he truly ministered unto none except 
himself, the preacher then, was a cold, hard Scotchman, 
High Church of course. He firmly believed in the dam 
nation of infants, and a Hell of which the component 
parts would be brimstone and fire in proper proportions. 


He also believed in the efficacy of prayer, especially of 
his own. Therefore, it not infrequently happened, that 
when any one incurred his ill will, which was not diffi 
cult, he would offer up a prayer, consigning said individ 
ual to the hottest tortures of the world below. He did 
this so adroitly, that, while there were no plain person 
alities in his words, his description of the sinner would 
be so specific, that the party of the second part readily 
identified himself as the central figure of the excoriation. 
Now this saintly preacher had at one time demeaned 
himself, or so he thought, sufficiently low to offer him 
self in marriage to Miss Margaret Grath. She had de 
clined the honor, and he had hated her ever after. 
Like all true women, however, she had kept his secret, 
so that none of the congregation knowing the relation 
which existed, or which might have existed, between 
them, none could read between the lines of his sermons, 
when he chose to lash her by a savage denunciation of 
any mild backsliding, of which she might have been 
guilty, and himself cognizant. Her return to the village 
with the child, who had no visible father, and no mother, 
unless the guesses of the gossips were correct, had af 
forded him opportunity for a most masterly peroration. 
But he belched forth his greatest eloquence on that 
Sunday morning, when she had the temerity to bring 
into the sacred confines of his sanctuary this fatherless 
boy, for whose sake she had chosen to live a lonely life. 
If his prayer of that morning proved efficacious, then 
surely the infant was damned, and the woman s soul 


consigned to endless Purgatory. Thus the day to which 
Leon recurred in thought, was a landmark in another 
life beside his, and I have turned aside for a moment to 
relate this incident, that the character of Miss Grath 
may be better comprehended, for in spite of all that she 
had suffered through the animosity of the preacher, she 
had never omitted attendance at church, when it was a 
physical possibility for her to get there. It must be true 
that some of her determination and will descended 
from her to the boy, because association means more 
than heredity. 

The next occurrence in his life, which now occupied 
his thoughts, was a day long after, when he was nearing 
his twelfth year. He was off on a hunting expedition, 
and had climbed a mountain. Careless in leaping from 
crag to crag, he landed upon a loose boulder, which 
rolled from under his feet, so that he was thrown. In 
falling, his foot twisted, and a moment later, intense pain 
made him aware that he could not walk upon it. For 
four hours he slowly, but pluckily, dragged himself down 
the mountain, and at last reached home. It so chanced 
that a celebrated physician from New York was spend 
ing a vacation in the neighborhood, attracted perhaps by 
the brooks, which were full of fish. This man was Dr. 
Emanuel Medjora, and having heard of the boy s hurt, 
he voluntarily visited the lonely farm-house, and attended 
upon him so skilfully that Leon soon was well. 

Just why the thought of Dr. Medjora should come to 
him at this time was a problem to Leon, but one upon 

ONE NIGHT. 20 1 

which he did not dwell. After that summer, he had 
seen the Doctor again at various times, two or three 
years apart, always at vacation-time. But it was now 
three years since they had met. 

Swiftly his thoughts passed along the years of his life, 
until they stopped for a moment, arrested by an inci 
dent worthy of being chronicled. I have said that Leon 
lay in his boat, face skyward, and allowed his bark to 
drift whither it would. Thus he had not noted his prog 
ress until a crunching sound startled him, and he became 
aware that his boat had found a landing-place, having 
grounded amidst the sands of a little cove, sheltered by 
a high rock and overhanging shrubbery. Forced thus 
from his abstraction into some cognizance of his where 
abouts, Leon, without raising his head, merely became 
aware of the branches and leaves overhead, and peered 
through them. Almost in the midst of the green, he 
-,aw what seemed to be a brilliant but monstrous dia 
mond, pendent from a branch. In the next instant he 
recognized that he was gazing upon Venus, the morning 
star, which had risen during his reverie, and now shone 
esplendent and most beautiful. It was just at this 
noment, that the .incident occurred to which I have 
illuded. Suddenly it seemed to him that the whole of 
lis surroundings were familiar. Everything had oc- 
urred before. His boat drifting into the cove, the 
hrubbery overhead, and Venus in the sky ; all that he 
iow realized, in the most minute detail, had held a 
lace in his experience before. Such a phenomenon is 


not uncommon. All of us have been impressed simi 
larly. Indeed, some Theosophists, trying to prove a 
previous life for man, have reverted to this well-known 
feeling, and have claimed that here is a recollection of a 
former visit to this earth. But Leon, young philosopher 
though he was, would have laughed in scorn at such an 
argument. He had considered this problem, and had 
solved it satisfactorily for himself. His explanation 
was thus. Man s brain is divided into two hemispheres. 
Usually they act co-ordinately, but it is possible that, at 
least momentarily, they may operate independently. It 
is a fact that the phenomenon under consideration sel 
dom, or never occurs, except when the mind is greatly 
interested or occupied. Something, perhaps in itself the 
merest trifle, diverts the mind from the intensity of its 
attention. This diversion leads by a train of circum 
stances to a long-forgotten memory, and one hemisphere 
of the brain reverts to a moment in the past, the other 
continuing intent upon its surroundings. Within an 
infinitesimal period of time, a period too brief to be 
calculable, both hemispheres are again acting in unison. 
The abstraction has been so brief, and the cause of it is 
so dimly defined, that the mind is oblivious of what lias 
occurred, except that, as the diverted hemisphere again 
takes cognizance of its previous thoughts, and again 
recognizes the environment of the present, the phenom 
enon of a dual experience is noted. Of course the 
scene is identically the same as that which is remem 
bered, because it is the same scene. And the previous 


experience will impress the individual as having oc 
curred long ago, in exact proportion to the date of that 
circumstance to which one hemisphere has reverted. 

Therefore, Leon did not, at this time, speculate upon 
the mystery, which he thought he understood, but he 
welcomed the advent of a long-sought opportunity, to 
trace out the cause of such an abstraction, so Meeting in 
its nature. 

He was occupied thus, for half an hour, but at length 
believed that he had analyzed the experience. The 
turning-point, at which he had been diverted, was when 
he first recogni/.ed Venus. And now he remembered 
that occasion when he had gone upon a journey. Away 
from his home for the first time in his life, he felt many 
sensations which I need not record here. But one 
amusement had been to sit at night studying the stars, 
and from them fixing the position of the buildings on 
the home farm, in relation to those where he was then 
abiding. One evening, when watching Venus, then the 
evening star, he was looking across a pool of water, and 
trying to imagine himself back on Massabesic, with 
the same planet setting behind the western hill, when, 
turning his head, he saw a young and beautiful girl 
standing near him. As his eyes abandoned the planet 
for the woman, he was startled by the thought that the 
goddess had been re-embodied. A moment later, the 
girl asked him for some information relating to the 
nearest way to her home, which he gave, and she walked 
on. He had never seen her since, nor had he thought 


of her again. But now, having analyzed his thoughts 
and traced them back from the star to that girl, her face 
thus summoned seemed to take the place of the planet 
in the heavens, and to gaze down upon him with an 
assuring smile, which somehow made him feel that the 
future might hold something for him after all. 

What that something might be, he did not even try to 
guess. Therefore, you must not adopt the conclusion 
that Leon thus suddenly fell in love with a girl whose 
face had been seen by him but once. No idea within 
his mind, connected with that face, was now coupled 
with a thought of her as an earthly being. He merely 
summoned up the image of a lovely being, and felt him 
self refreshed, and hope returning. 

A few moments later the twilight brightened and the 
first red border of the sun, peeping over the tops of the 
trees, shed a warming ray upon Leon, thus awakened 
from his dreamy night into the first day of his manhood. 



ON a bright, warm morning, a week later, Leon had 
already arisen, though it was barely past five o clock, 
and having wandered off into a secluded spot in the 
woods, lay on the ground, his head pillowed against a 
tree trunk. Margaret Orath had been laid away beneath 
the sod, and the old home was no longer homelike to 
him, since her two sisters had moved in, to take pos 
session until " the auction " which was to occur on 
this day. 

He had never liked these women, and they had lav 
ished no affection upon him. Consequently he was 
uneasy in their presence, and so avoided them. They 
had plainly told him that he was no kith nor kin of 
theirs, and that though lie might abide on the farm till 
the auction, after that event he would be obliged to shift 
for himself. They also volunteered the advice that he 
should leave the town, and added that if he did so it 
would be a good riddance. To all of these kind 
speeches Leon had listened in silence, determined that 
he would earn his living without further dependence 
upon this family, upon whom he now thought that he had 
already intruded too long, though unknowingly. 



Now, as he lay among the fresh mosses, and inhaled 
the sweet scents of surrounding blossoms which lifted 
their drooping heads, and unfolded their petals to the 
kisses of the newly risen sun, he was musing upon the 
necessities of his situation, while in a measure taking 
a last farewell of haunts which he had learned to love. 

Presently, a sound of rustling twigs arrested his atten 
tion, and he saw a tiny chipmunk looking at him. He 
smiled, and pursing up his lips emitted a sound which 
was neither whistle, nor warble, but a combination of 
both. The little creature flirted his head to one side, as 
though listening. Leon repeated the call a little louder, 
and with a sudden dash the chipmunk swiftly sped 
towards him, as suddenly stopping about ten yards 
away. Here he sat up on his haunches, and, with his 
forefeet, apparently caressed his head. Now Leon 
changed his method, and sounded a prolonged and 
musical trill, like the purling of a brook. The chip 
munk came nearer and nearer, his timidity gradually 
passing away. And now, in the distance, another rush 
through the shrubbery was heard, and another chipmunk 
swiftly came out into the open, presently joining his 
mate, and approaching nearer and nearer to Leon, in 
short runs. At length they were quite close to him, and 
he took some peanuts from his pocket. One at a time 
he threw this tempting food to the little animals, who 
quickly nibbled off the outer shell and abstracted the 
kernels, sitting up, their tails gracefully curled over their 
backs. As Leon continued his chirping to his wild 


pets, two searching eyes were gazing with intense 
interest upon the scene. And the man who owned 
those eyes thought thus of what he saw : 

" He has inherited the power. It is untrained at 
present, but it will be easily developed." 

A few moments later, Leon waved his hand and the 
chipmunks scurried off, leaving the youth once more to 
his meditations. But soon again he was interrupted. This 
time the noise of the approaching creature was readily 
discernible even while he was yet afar off, and in a few 
moments there came bounding through the brush a 
magnificent collie, sable and white, and beautifully 
marked. This was Lossy, or, rather, " The Marquis of 
Lossy," to give him his full title. Lossy was truly a 
perfect collie, with long pointed nose, eyes set high in 
the forehead, and beaming with human intelligence and 
a dog s love, which, we all know, transcends the human 
passion which goes by the same name ; his ears were 
small and, at rest, carried so close to the head that, 
buried in the long fur they were scarcely discernible, 
yet, they pricked sharply forward when a sound attracted, 
giving the face that rakish look so peculiar to the spe 
cies ; and besides a grand coat of long, fine hair, and 
a heavy undercoat for warmth, he had a glorious bushy 
tail, carried at just the curve that lent a pleasing sym 
metry to the whole form. In short, Lossy was a collie 
that would prove a prize-winner in any company. 

But what was better than mere physical beauty, he 
was an exception in intelligence, even for a collie, and 


lavished a wealth of love upon his young master. On 
this morning, Leon had purposely stolen away without 
the dog, for the pleasure of what now occurred. Lossy, 
finally awakening from his morning nap, and missing 
his master, had started after him taking almost the same 
course pursued by Leon. And now, after his long run, 
he bounded forward, landing upon Leon s breast with 
force enough to roll him over, and then, whining with 
joy at the reunion, the dog kissed his master s face and 
hands again and again. 

This display of affection delighted Leon, and he re 
turned it with unusual demonstrativeness. Rising from 
the ground, he snapped his fingers, and at the sound 
Lossy bounded into the air, to be caught in the arms of 
his master, hugged close to his bosom, and then dropped 
to the ground. This trick was repeated again and again, 
the dog responding with increasing impatience for the 
signal. Sometimes it was varied. Leon turning his 
back, and bending his body at a slight angle, would give 
the signal, whereupon Lossy would spring with agility 
upon his back and climb forward, until, by holding the 
shoulders with his forepaws, he could reach his head 
around, seeking to kiss Leon s face. Here the fun was, 
for as the dog s head protruded over one shoulder, Leon 
turned his face away, whereupon Lossy would quickly 
essay to reach his goal over the other. In the midst of 
this sort of play, Leon was surprised to hear his dog 
growl. Then Lossy leaped to the ground, his hair rose 
almost straight along his spine, his ears pricked forward, 


and again he growled ominously. Before Leon could 
step forward to investigate, the man who had been 
silently observing the whole scene stepped out, and 
Leon recognized Dr. Medjora. 

While the two men gaze silently upon each other, I 
may take the opportunity to say a few words about Dr. 

Immediately after his trial he left New York for a brief 
period, very much against the wishes of Madam Corona. 
She pleaded with him for ah immediate marriage, but he 
firmly adhered to his own plans. The wedding occurred, 
however, a year later, and he resumed the practice of his 
profession in the Metropolis. Nineteen years later, at 
the time when Margaret Grath died, he was counted one 
of the most eminent practitioners in the country. He 
had steadfastly declined to adopt surgery, that most fas 
cinating field wherein great reputations are frequently 
acquired through a single audacious operation, happily 
carried to a successful termination ; but instead, he re 
mained the plain medical man, paying special attention 
to zymotic diseases. Within this sphere he slowly but no 
less surely acquired fame, as from time to time the dy 
ing were plucked almost from the arms of death, and 
restored to health and usefulness. 

Attracting the admiration and esteem of his patients 
in a most remarkable degree, he nevertheless aroused in 
them a certain feeling of almost superstitious awe. Peo 
ple did not say aloud that Dr. Medjora was a partner of 
the Evil One, but many whispers, not easily traceable, 


finally resulted in his being commonly known as the 
" Wizard Doctor " or simply the " Wizard." 

On this morning, having come into the vicinity during 
the week for some trout fishing, and then having learned 
of the auction sale about to take place, he had deter 
mined to be present. He was early on his way to the 
farm, when, crossing the strip of wood, he had first ob 
served Leon with the chipmunks. Now having shown 
himself he spoke : 

" You are Leon Grath, I believe ? " said he. 

" If you do, your belief is ill founded," replied Leon, 
speaking with no ill temper, but rather with a touch of 

" Surely you are Leon 

" I am Leon, but not Grath. You are Dr. Medjora ?" 

" Ah ! Then you remember me ? " 

" Certainly ! I remember all men, friend or foe. You 
have been more the former than the latter. Therefore 
the remembrance is quite distinct." 

Hearing the sound of his master s voice, untinged by 
anger, the collie evidently decided that the newcomer 
was no enemy, and strolling off a short distance, turned 
thrice, and lay down, resting his nose between his two 
forepaws, and eying the twain, awaited developments. 

" I am glad that you have pleasant recollections of our 
brief acquaintance. But now, will you explain what you 
mean by saying that you are not Leon Grath. I thought 
that Grath was your name ? " 

" So did I, Doctor, but I have learned that I was mis- 


taken. I was with Margaret Grath when she died, and 
she told me He paused. 

" She told you what ? " asked Dr. Medjora, with ap 
parent eagerness. 

" That Grath is not my name." 

" What then is it ? Did she tell you that ? " 

" No ! I am Leon, the nameless ! " 

There was a touch of bitterness in Leon s voice, and, 
as he felt a slight difficulty in enunciation caused by ris 
ing emotions, he turned away his head and gazed into 
the deepest part of the wood, closing his jaws tight to 
gether, and straining every muscle of his body to high 
tension, in his endeavor to regain full control of himself. 
Dr. Medjora observed the inward struggle for mastery 
of self, and admired the youth for his strength of char 
acter. Without, however, betraying that he had noticed 
anything, he said quietly : 

" What will you do about it ? " 

" I will make a name for myself," was the reply given, 
with sharp decisiveness of tones, and a smile played 
around the corners of Leon s mouth, as though the open 
assertion of his purpose was a victory half won. 

Oh, the springtime of our youth ! The young man 
climbs to the top of the first hill, and, gazing off into his 
future, sees so many roads leading to fortune, that he 
hesitates only about the choice, not deeming failure pos 
sible by any path. But, presently, when his chosen way 
winds up the mountain-side, growing narrower and more 
difficult with every setting sun, at length he realizes the 


difference between expectation and fulfilment. But 
Leon was now on the top of his first hill, and climbing 
mountains seemed so brave a task that he was eager to 
begin. Therefore, he spoke boldly. Almost at once he 
met his first check. 

" You will make a name for yourself ! " repeated Dr. 
Medjora. " How ? Have you decided ? " 

Leon felt at once confronted with the task which 
he had set himself. Now, the truth was that he had 
decided upon his way in life ; or, rather, I should 
say he had chosen, and, having made his choice, he con 
sidered that he had decided the matter permanently. Yet, 
the first man who questioned him, caused him to doubt 
the wisdom of his choice, to hesitate about speaking of it, 
and to feel diffident, so that he did not answer promptly. 
Dr. Medjora watched him closely, and spoke again. 

" Ah, I see ; you think of becoming an author." 

" How did you know that ? " asked Leon, quickly, 
very much perplexed to find his secret guessed. 

" Then it is a fact ? You would not ask me how I 
know it, were it not true. I will answer your question, 
though it is of slight consequence. You are evidently 
a young man of strong will-power, and yet you became 
awkwardly diffident when I asked you what path in life 
you had elected to follow. I have observed that diffi 
dence is closely allied to a species of shame, and that 
both are invariable symptoms of budding authorship. 
To one of your temperament, I should say that these 
feelings would come only from two causes, secret author- 


ship and love. The latter being out of consideration, 
the former became a self-evident fact." 

" Dr. Medjora, you seem to be a logician, and I should 
think that you might be a successful author yourself." 

" I might be, but I am not. I could be, only I do 
not choose to be. But we are speaking of yourself. If 
you wish to be a writer, I presume that you have written 
something. Does it. satisfy you ; that is to say, do you 
consider that it is as excellent as it need be ? " 

I have done a little writing. While thinking, this 
week, about my future, somehow there came to me a 
longing to write. I did so, and I have been over my 
little sketch so many times, that I cannot see wherein it 
is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited 
it may sound, that I am satisfied with it." 

" That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied 
with his own work he has already reached the end of his 
abilities. It is only continual dissatisfaction with our 
efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to attain better 
things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be 
a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what 
you have written. You have it with you, I suppose?" 

Leon was much embarrassed. He wished that he 
could say no, but the composition was in his pocket. So 
he drew it out and handed it to Dr. Medjora, without 
saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and 
then said encouragingly : 

There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. 


" Ah, Doctor ! " said Leon, eagerly. " That is what I 
have aimed at. I have but a single idea to expound, 
and I have endeavored to clothe it in as few words as 
possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to make 
every word count. Please read it with that view upper 

The Doctor nodded assent, and then read the little 
story, which was as follows : 


I am dead ! 

Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being 
present at your own funeral, as I am now ? 

Impossible ! For you are alive ! 

But I ? I am dead ! 

There lies my body, prone and stiff, uncoffined, whilst 
the grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns 
the sod which is to hide me away forever. 

Or so he thinks. 

Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a 
grave ? 

Why ? Because minister though he be, he is, or was 
my master ; and my murderer. 

Murderer did I say ? Was it murder to kill a dog ? 

For only a dog I was ; or may I say, I am ? 

I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For 
this bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. 
He kicked me, and I died. 

Was that murder ? Or is the word applicable only to 
Man, who is immortal ? 

But stay ! What is the test of immortality ? 

The ego says, " I am I," and earns eternity. 

Then am I not immortal, since though dead, I may 
speak the charmed words ? 

No ! For Christianity preaches annihilation to beast, 
and immortality for Man only. Man, the only animal 


that murders. Shall I be proof that Christianity con 
tains a flaw ? 

Yet view it as you may, here I am, dead, yet not 

I say here I am, yet where am I ? 

How is it that I, stupid mongrel that I was, though 
true and loving friend, as all dogs are ; how is it that I, 
who but slowly caught my master s meaning from his 
words, now understand his thoughts although he does 
not speak ? 

At last I comprehend. I know now where I am. I 
am within his mind. His eagerness to bury my poor 
carcass is but born of the desire to drive me thence. 

But is not mind an attribute of the human soul, and 
conscience too ? And are not both immortal ? 

Thus then the problem of my future do I solve. Let 
this good Christian man hide under ground my carcass ; 
evidence of his foul crime. And being buried, let it rot. 
What care I though it should be annihilated ? 

I am here, within this man s immortal mind, and here 
I shall abide forever more, and prick his conscience for 
my pastime. 

Thus do I win immortality, and cheat the Christian s 

Having read to the end, Dr. Medjora nodded approv 
ingly to Leon and said : 

" For a first composition, you may well rest satisfied 
with this. It is very subtile. Indeed I am surprised at 
the originality and thought which you have displayed 
here. I should like to discuss with you some of the 
points. May I ? " 

" With pleasure," Leon replied with ardor, delighted 
to find his little story so well received. 

"The first thought that occurs to me is, that there is 
a certain amount of inspiration about your essay. I say 


essay because it is that rather than a story. From this, 
I deduce a fact discouraging to your ambition, for in 
spirations are rare, and it is probable that were you to 
succeed in selling this to some magazine, you would 
find it difficult to produce anything else as good." 

" Why, Doctor," said Leon, anxious to prove his abil 
ity, " I wrote that in a few minutes." 

" By which statement you mean that with time for 
thought, you might do better. But your argument is in 
favor of my theory. The more rapidly you wrote this, 
the more difficult will it be for you to write another. 
Let me tell you what I read between the lines here. 
Miss Grath having died, you were left alone in the 
world. Her two amiable sisters coming to the farm, 
probably made your loneliness intensified, and whilst 
depressed by your mood, your dog showed you some 
affection, which reaching you when your heart was full, 
caused it to spill over, and this was the result. Am i 
wrong ? " 

" No ! You have guessed the circumstances almost 
exactly. As you say, I was feeling lonely and depressed. 
I came here for solitude, which is something different 
from loneliness, and which is as soothing as loneliness is 
depressing. I was sitting under that tree, thinking 
bitter things of the world in general, and of the people 
about me more especially, when without my having 
heard him approach, my dog, Lossy, dear old brute, 
pushed his head over my shoulders, placed his paws 
around my neck, and kissed me. It affected me deeply. 


It. was as though 1 had received a message from Provi 
dence, telling me not to despair. Then like a flash it 
came to me, that if love is an attribute of the soul, and 
a dog s love is the most unselfish of all, it must follow 
logically that a dog has a soul." 

" Your deduction is correct, if there be any such thing 
as soul. But, for the moment, I will not take that up. 
You have told enough to show that I am right as to the 
origin of your tale. It is also evident that you cannot 
hope to be under such emotional excitement at all 
times, when you might be called upon to write ; to write 
or go without a meal. However, I have faith in you, 
and do not doubt that we shall find a way for you to 
earn as many meals as you shall need." 

" Do you mean that you will assist me ? " 

" T. will assist you, if I am correct in my present opin 
ion of you. Young men who need and expect assist 
ance, are rarely worthy of help. But I wish to talk 
about your essay. I like the line Was it murder to 
kill a dog ? and the one which follows, For only a 
dog 1 was ; or may I say, I am ? Of course the word 
murder, strictly applied, means the killing of a man by 
his fellow. [ think I comprehend what you mean here, 
but I would like you to explain it to me." 

" Doctor, you compliment me by taking this so seri 
ously. There is a deeper meaning in the words than 
might be detected by a superficial reader. As you say, 
the word. murder applies only to the killing of a man, 
by a man. Or I might change the wording and say, the 


killing of a human being. Here, human implies the 
possession of those higher attributes, the aggregate of 
which is the soul, which by man is arrogantly claimed 
to exist exclusively in man. And it is the violent sepa 
ration of this soul from its earthly body, which makes it 
the heinous crime, murder ; while the beast, not possess 
ing a soul, may be killed without scruple, and without 
crime. Hence I say, Was it murder to kill a dog ? 
and at once, in so few words, I raise the question as to 
whether the dog has not a soul." 

" I follow you. Your explanation is only what I 
expected. I said that I liked the next line : For only 
a dog I was ; or may I say, I am ? This time I will 
show you that I comprehend you. The question here 
implies much. If the dog is annihilated at death, then 
this dog ceased to exist when his master slew him. 
But he is speaking ; he realizes that he continues to 
exist. Therefore, he says most pertinently, or may I 
say, I am ? The question carries its own affirmative, 
for what is not, cannot question its own existence. The 
subtilty here is very nice. You convince your reader 
by presenting what seems to be a self-evident proposi 
tion, and if he admits this, he must accord immortality 
to the dog, for he that after death may say I am is 
immortal. But the flaw, which you have so well hidden, 
lies in the fact that you have started with the assumption 
of that which you have essayed to prove. You make 
the dead dog speak, which would be an impossibility 
had he been annihilated." 


" I am delighted, Doctor, at the way in which you 
criticise me. But I am contending that the dog is im 
mortal, hence my assumption at the very start, that 
though dead, he may record his sensations. I do not 
really mean to discuss the point, nor to prove it. I 
merely mean dogmatically to assume it. I picture a 
dog, who in life believed that death would be his total 
extinction, but who, when suddenly deprived of life, 
finds that he is still in existence, and endeavors to ana 
lyze his condition. If you will overlook the seeming 
egotism of pointing out what I think the most subtile 
idea, I would call your attention to the line where, con 
cluding that he is immortal, he says Here I am, and 
instantly asks Where am I ? 

" Yes. I had already admired that and what follows ; 
but I will ask you to expound it yourself." 

" You are very kind," said Leon, pleased, and eager 
to talk upon his subject. " He asks where he is, and 
after a moment decides that he is in his master s mind. 
Then he argues truly that, as mind is but a part, or attri 
bute of the soul, if the soul be immortal, the mind and 
all that it contains must live on, also. Therefore, being 
in the man s mind, he needs only to stay there, to escape 
annihilation. Then he adds, that he will prick the man s 
conscience forever. Here is something more than a 
mere dogmatism. None will deny that the wanton kill 
ing of a dog can never be forgotten, and if the dog 
remains in one s mind, is not that a sort of immortality ? " 

" Sophistry, my boy, sophistry ; but clever. The 


idea is original, and well conceived for the purpose of 
your narrative. But. like many deductions assumed to 
be logical, it is illogical, because your premises are 
wrong. It is not the dog, nor his spirit, that abides in 
the mind and assails the conscience. What the man 
tries in vain to forget is the thought of killing the beast, 
and thought, of course, is immutable ; but it does not at 
all follow that the thing of which we think is imper 

" I see your meaning, Doctor, and of course you are 
right. But do you side with the Christian, and claim 
that the dog is annihilated, while man is immortal ? " 

" A discussion upon religious topics is seldom profita 
ble. In reply to your question, I think that you will 
be satisfied if I admit that the dog is as surely immortal 
as man. No more so, and no less. The Christian hypoth 
esis, in this respect, is a unique curiosity to a thinking 
man, at best. We are asked to believe that man is first 
non-existent ; then in a moment he begins to exist, or is 
born ; then he dies, but, nevertheless, continues to exist 
endlessly. Now it is an evident fact that birth and 
death are analogous occurrences, and related only to 
existence on this planet. The body of a man is born, 
and it dies. It begins, and it ends. As to immortality, 
if you contend that something abided in that body which 
continues to exist after death, then it is necessary to 
admit that it had an existence previous to its entrance 
into the body, at birth. Nothing can continue to exist 
in all future time, which began at any fixed moment ; 


it must have being, whether we look forward or back 
ward. Form is perishable. It had a beginning, birth ; 
and it will have an end, death ! But the intelligence 
which inhabits all form will live forever, because it has 
forever lived. So I repeat, the dog is as immortal as the 

There followed a silence after this speech, the two 
men gazing upon one another intently, without speak 
ing. Leon was deeply affected. He felt almost as 
though listening to himself, and there is no human being 
who does not find himself entertaining. Leon had 
grown up without human companionship, for, in his en 
vironment, there was no one of temperament congenial 
to his. But he had not lacked for company. He found 
that within the covers of those books which he had 
begged, borrowed, or bought with hard-earned, and more 
hardly-saved, pennies. Miss Grath had never encouraged 
him to waste his time " reading those wicked science 
books," when he should have been studying his Testa 
ment. But he had sat alone in his garret room, on many 
a night, reading by a candle, for he dared not use the 
oil, which was measured out to last a given time. Thus 
he had become infatuated with works of divers kinds : 
Mythology, Sociology, Theology, Physiology, Psychol 
ogy, and other kindred but difficult subjects. Difficult 
indeed to the student who is his own teacher. He had 
come to read his books, imagining that he listened to 
the authors talking, and, not infrequently, carried away 
by his interest in his subject, he had caught himself ad- 


dressing questions aloud to the writer, whom his fancy 
pictured as present. Now, for the first time, he had 
heard a man " talk like a book." When he recovered 
from his pleasurable surprise, he said with emotion and 
ardor : 

" Doctor, if I could be where I might hear you talk, 
or have you to teach me, I would be the happiest boy in 
the world." 

"Are you in earnest, Leon, or are you merely carried 
away by an emotion, aroused by something which I have 
said ?" 

" I am in earnest, but " here his voice dropped and 
his tone became almost sad, " of course I have no right 
to ask such a favor. Pardon my presumption." 

" Leon, if you mean what you have said ; if you will 
be happy with me ; if you will accept me as your 
teacher, and endeavor to learn what I can teach you, 
your wish shall be gratified." 

"What do you mean?" cried Leon, renewed hope 
stirring within his breast. 

"You know me as a doctor, by which you understand 
that I physic people when they are sick. But the true 
meaning of doctor, is teacher. I am willing to be that 
to you, and I know much that I can teach ; very much 
more than other men. I will take you as my student, if 
you will come." 

" You are very kind, Dr. Medjora, and I could wish 
for no greater happiness than the chance to "learn. 
Knowledge to me is God, the God whom I worship. But 


I could never repay you for the time and trouble that it 
will entail." 

" Indeed you can. Knowledge is power, but the 
knowledge of one man has its limitation, for the man 
will die. I have two things that I must leave at death, 
money and knowledge. The former I may bequeath to 
whom I please, and he will get it, unless others squabble 
over my will until the lawyers spend the estate. With 
my knowledge it is different. I must impart it to my 
successor during my life, or it will perish with me. I 
have labored long and hard, and I have accumulated 
knowledge of the rarest and most unusual kind. 
Knowledge which makes me count myself the wisest 
physician in the world to-day. Knowledge which I 
can transfer to you, if you will accept it as a sacred 
trust, and use the power which it will confer upon you 
for the benefit of your fellows. Have you the courage 
and the energy to accept my offer ? If so, do not hesi 
tate, for I have been seeking for the proper man during 
several years. If you be he, I ask no other reward for 
what my task will be, than to see you worthy. Will you 
accept ? " 

" I will ! " 

Leon placed his hand in that of Doctor Medjora, and 
thus made a compact with one, to whom were attributed 
powers as potent as Satan s. Side by side, and deeply 
absorbed in earnest conversation, they started to walk 
to the farm, to be present at the sale. Lossy, although 
for the moment forgotten by his master, was on the alert 


and jumped up to follow, as soon as they started away. 
For the dog is a faithful friend, and the collie perhaps 
the most faithful of all dogs, if indeed there be any 
choice in that respect between purest bred and mongrel. 



ALL the neighboring towns-people knew that the Grath 
farm was to be sold on this day. The " bills " had been 
" out " for over two weeks. These were announcements, 
printed in large letters, on bright-colored paper, and 
hung up in barber-shops, grocery stores, post-offices 
and even nailed on trees. One might be driving along 
an almost deserted road, several miles from any habita 
tion, and suddenly find himself confronted by one of 
these yellow and black " auction bills," which would 
notify him that upon the stated date a homestead would 
be " sold out," in the next county. 

Therefore it was not surprising that when Leon and 
the Doctor reached the farm, several " teams " were al 
ready " hitched " along the stone wall that surrounded 
the orchard. 

The auction was advertised to begin at eight o clock, 
and by seven over a hundred persons had already 
arrived, and were " rummaging " about the premises. 
An auction of this kind differs greatly from an art sale 
at Chickering Hall. There is no catalogue, numbering 
the various lots to be offered ; nevertheless there is 
15 225 


nothing so small, so worthless, so old, so broken, or so 
rusty, that it will not be put up, and bid for too. Many 
of the prospective buyers come many miles to attend, 
and as the sale usually lasts all day, it is expected that 
the owner will serve dinner promptly at noon, to all who 
may wish to partake of his hospitality. As these 
dinners, save in rare cases, usually amount to nothing 
better than a luncheon, many bring viands with them, 
thus reinforcing themselves against contingencies of 

By the time that the auction was to begin, the Grath 
farm looked like a veritable picnic-ground ; teams tied 
to every place that offered, one old man having 
" hitched " his horse to a mowing-machine, which caused 
some merriment when that article was sold, the auction 
eer announcing that he would " throw in the critter 
leaning against the machine " ; whilst here and there 
some of the bolder visitors had gathered together tables 
and chairs, and were keeping guard over them until the 
eating hour. 

One old woman approached Leon and sought infor 
mation, thus : 

" Be you the boy that Marg ret Grath took offen the 
county farm ? " To which Leon vouchsafed no reply, 
but turned and walked away. This at once aroused the 
anger of the irascible old party, who followed him 
speaking loudly. 

" Hoity ! Toity ! What airs for a beggar s brat ! I d 
have you to know, young man, that when I ax a civil ques- 


tion, I cac late to git a civil answer ! " Which calculation, 
however, miscarried. 

Over near the barn he met another woman who asked : 

" I say ! You be the boy as lives here, be ant you ? " 

"Yes, I live here," replied Leon. 

" Well ! I hearn as how Miss Grath hed some white 
ducks, so nigh as big s geese, thet a body could n t tell 
one from t other. Now I ve sarched the hull place 
lookin fer them ducks, but bless me ef I kin find a 
feather on em. I seen a fine flock o geese in the 
orchard, but I want you to show me them ducks. I m 
jest achin to see em." 

" The flock in the orchard are the ducks ; we have no 
geese," explained Leon. 

" You don t mean it ! " rejoined the woman, much 
astounded. "So them geese is the ducks ! Land alive ! 
And I took em for geese. Well, I never ! To think I 
could n t tell one from t other ! I mus git another peak 
at em." Then she hurried away towards the orchard. 

Over by the barn a man was coming out from the 
horse stalls, with an old leather strap in his hand, when 
he was suddenly confronted by the stern visage of Miss 
Matilda Grath, spinster. Before he found words of 
greeting, she burst forth in wrathful tones : 

" Jeremiah Hubbard, whatever do you mean by stealin 
other folks property, right before their very eyes ? " 

" Stealing Miss Grath ? Me steal ? You mus be losin 
your senses. Hain t ye ?" 

" No, I hain t ! " snapped back Miss Grath. " An ef 


you an t stealin that strap, I d like to know what you re 
doin , takin it outen the barn, before it s sold ? " 

" Gosh ! Ye don t mean you re goin to sell this 
strap ? " 

" An why not, I d like to know ? It s mine, an I kin 
sell it, I spose, thout gittin your permission ? " 

"Why, sartin ! But tain t wuth nothin ." 

" Ef tain t wuth nothin , I d have you tell me what 
you re takin it for ? " 

" Well, you see," Mr. Hubbard was embarrassed by 
the question " it s this way. A bit o my harness is 
a leetle weak, and I thought this d come handy to 
brace it up till I get to hum." 

u Jes so," answered Miss Grath, with gratification, 
"an* as twould come handy, you jes took it, French 
leave. Well ! Ef you stay till the end o the auction, 
mebbe you 11 git a chance to buy it. Meanwhile, Mr. 
Hubbard. it might be s well to keep your hands offen 
what don t belong to you." 

Mr. Hubbard threw the old piece of strap back in the 
stall, and pushing his hands deep into his pockets, 
snarled out : 

" I reckon I 11 put my hands in my pockets, where 
my money is, an keep em there too ! " With which he 
strode away, a very angry man. He stayed to the end 
of the auction, but Miss Grath noticed with regret that 
he did not bid on anything all day, and she wondered if 
she had not "put her foot in it," which she undoubtedly 
had. But there are many, many people, in this curious 


little worid, who hold a penny so close to their eyes that 
they lose sight of many dollars that might come their 
way were they not blinded by the love of small gains. 
Mr. Hubbard, too, was troubled as he rode home, that 
night ; for, aside from the fact that he had been accused 
of stealing, and that the stolen property had been " found 
on him," because of his determination not to let " the 
old hag " get any of his money he had lost several 
good opportunities to secure tempting " bargains " ; 
and there is nothing that a true New Englander loves so 
much as a bargain. 

At last there was a commotion in the crowd. Some one 
had recognized the auctioneer s team approaching, and 
presently he jumped out of his light wagon, greeting 
the men and women alike, by their first names, for there 
were few who did not know Mr. Potter, and there was 
none whom Mr. Potter did not know. 

Mr. Potter himself was a character of a genus so 
unique that he was perhaps the only living example. If 
it be true that poets are ever born, then Mr. Potter was 
born a poet. It was only by the veriest irony of fate 
that he was an auctioneer, although undoubtedly it is 
probable that he made more money by the latter calling, 
than he ever would have gained by printer s ink. And 
as for fame, that he had, if it please you. For be it known 
that no farm of consequence in. New Hampshire hath 
passed under the hammer these five and twenty years, 
but Mr. Potter hath presided at the obsequies. I use that 
word advisedly, for, truly, though they make a picnic of 


the event, the selling of an old homestead is a funereal 
sort of pleasure. 

The cause of his success lay in the fact that, with 
wisdom such as no professional poet has been known to 
possess, Mr. Potter had combined his business and his 
pleasure, so that he became known as a poetical auc 
tioneer. Gifted with the faculty of rhyming, and well 
versed in the poets, he readily would find a couplet to 
fit all occasions. Sometimes they were quoted entire, 
sometimes they appeared as familiar lines with a new 
termination, and not infrequently the verse would be 
entirely original, provoked by the existing circumstances. 

As to his personality, I need but a few adjectives to 
give you his picture. He was a large man, and a hearty 
one. Witty, genial, and gallant to the ladies. Above 
all things, he possessed the rare faculty of adapting him 
self to his surroundings. Add to this that he was 
scrupulously honest and fair in his dealing, and you 
will readily believe that he was popular. His name on 
a " bill " always assured a large crowd. On this occa 
sion more than the usual throng surrounded him, as he 
climbed up into an ox-cart and opened the sale with 
these words : 

" My friends, we will begin the morning services by 
quoting a verse from Dr. Watts, junior : 

" Blest is the man who shuns the place 

Where other auctions be, 
And in his pocket saves his cash 
To buy his goods of me." 

Then, when the laugh had died away, he offered for 


sale the cart upon which he stood, reserving the right to 
stand upon it during the balance of the day. The bidding 
was spiritless at first, and the cart went for two dollars. 
Mr. Potter remarking, as he knocked it down : 

" Thus passeth my understanding ! " 

And so the sale progressed, Mr. Potter finding many 
opportunities which called forth some selection from his 
store of poetry. There were many sharp sallies from 
the crowd, for the New Englander is keen of wit, but the 
auctioneer ever had a ready rejoinder that turned the 
laugh away from himself, without causing ill-feeling. 

After a couple of hours, during which Leon saw many 
things sold which were associated in his mind with what 
were now sacred memories, he turned away from the 
crowd, and went off towards the barn. Lost in thought, 
he did not notice that the collie followed at his heels, 
until presently, walking between the bales of new hay, 
and finding one upon which he could throw himself, 
Lossy jumped up beside him and kissed him in the face. 

" Poor doggy," said the lad ; " you know that I m in" 
trouble, don t you, old boy ? " He paused as though he 
awaited a reply, and the dog, seeming to understand 
that something was expected of him, sat back on his 
haunches and offered his paw, tapping his master s arm 
again and again, until it was taken. Then Leon turned 
so as to face the dog squarely, and retaining the proffered 
paw, he spoke again. 

" I wonder, Lossy, how you will do in a great city ? 
Will you miss the old place, as I suppose I shall ? Will 


you mind being penned up in a little yard, with strict 
orders not to come into the grand house ? Will you 
miss going after the cows, and the sheep ? Will you 
miss your swims in the lake ? " He paused again, but 
Lossy was looking away much as a human being would 
who tried to hide his feelings. For there is little doubt 
that when a dog acts thus, in some mysterious way he 
comprehends his master s trouble, and shares it. " Never 
you mind, old fellow," Leon continued, " you sha n t be 
entirely forgotten. I 11 look out for you. The nights 
will be ours, and what fun we shall have. We 11 go off 
together on long walks, and if there is any country near 
enough, why we 11 go there sometimes on Sundays. For 
we don t care about church, do we, old boy ? No, sir ! 
The open fields, with the green grass, and the trees, and 
the birds, and the bright sunlight is all the church we 
need, is n t it, old doggy ? " He stopped, and as his voice 
had grown somewhat more cheerful, the dog vouchsafed 
to look at him timidly. Seeing encouragement, he 
wagged his tail a few times. " Come, sir," said Leon, " I 
am talking to you. Don t you hear? Answer my ques 
tion. Speak, sir ! Speak ! " " Whow ! Whow ! Whow- 
Whow ! " answered Lossy, barking lustily. But Leon 
held up his finger in warning, and he ceased. " What do 
you mean by all that noise?" said Leon. "Don t you 
understand that this is a confidential conversation ? Now, 
sir ! Answer me again, but softly ! softly ! " 

" Woof ! Woof ! Woof ! " answered Lossy, in tones as 
near a whisper as can be compassed by a dog. 


"Very well, sir !" said Leon. " That s better. Much 
better. We don t want to attract a crowd, so the less 
noise we make the better for us." 

But, alas ! The boy s warning came too late. Miss 
Matilda Grath had seen Leon go towards the barn, and 
when she heard the dog s loud barking, a sudden idea 
had come to her, which thrilled her cruel heart with 
anticipation of pleasure. So much so indeed, that she 
at once left the vicinity of the auctioneer, where her in 
terests were, and hurried out to the barn, surprising Leon 
by her unwelcome presence. 

" What are you doin out here all by yourself ? " she 

" I am not doing anything, Miss Grath ! " replied 
Leon mildly, hoping to mollify her. A vain hope ! 

" Miss Grath ! " she repeated sneeringly. " Don t you 
Miss Grath me. I an t to be molly-coddled by the likes 
o you. I wanter know what you re doin out here, 
when everybody s to the auction. You an t up to no 
good, I 11 warrant. Now up an tell me ! An no lies, or 
it will be the worst for you." 

" I don t know what you re aiming at. I came out here 
to be alone, that is all ! " 

" Oh ! You wanted to be alonej did you ? Well, that s 
the right way for you to feel, anyway. The company of 
decent folks an t for the likes o you." She paused, ex 
pecting an angry retort, but failing to obtain the desired 
excuse for proceeding in the diabolical design which she 
-vas bent upon executing, she continued in a worse tem- 


per. " You need n t think you kin fool me with your 
smooth talkin . I know you, and I know what you re 
up to ! " 

" Well, if you know, why did you ask me ? " said Leon, 
stung into something like anger. 

" I don t want none o your impudence. I 11 tell you 
mighty quick what you re up to. You re plannin to 
steal that dog, that s what you re after ! " 

" Steal Lossy ! Why how could I do that ? He is 
mine ! " Leon did not yet fully grasp what was coming, 
but the vague suspicion conveyed by the woman s words 
aroused a fear in his breast. 

" Oh ! He s your n, is he. We 11 see bout that. How 
did he come to be your n ? Did you buy him ? " 

" Why, of course not. He was born right here on the 
farm, and, when he was a puppy, mother gave him to 

" Don t you dare to call my sister mother, you impu 
dent young beggar. You never had no mother, and your 
scoundrel of a father foisted you onto my innocent, con- 
fidin sister, who took you out o charity, like a fool. I 
would n t ave done it." 

" I have not the least idea that you would, Miss Grath. 
You never did any one a kindness in your life, if what 
people say is true." 

" People say a deal sight more n their prayers. But 
that an t to the p int now. We re talkin bout this dog. 
You say he s your n ; that my sister gin him to you. 
Now kin you prove that ? " 


"Prove it?" repeated Leon, at last fully comprehend 
ing that his dog might be taken from him. " Prove it ! 
Why, how can I ? " 

" Jes so. You can t. My sister s dead, and an t 
here to contradict you, so in course you kin claim the 
dog. But that s all talk, an talk s cheap. The dog s 

" He is not yours." 

" An t he ? We 11 see bout that mighty quick." And 
before either Leon or the dog understood her purpose, 
she had grabbed Lossy in her arms, and was striding 
away towards the crowd around the auctioneer. Leon 
jumped down and followed her, his pulses beating high. 

Reaching the cart where Mr. Potter was standing, she 
threw the dog towards him, saying : 

" Here, sell this dog next. He s named Lossy. He s 
a right smart beast. Goes after the cows, kin tend 
sheep, and run a churn. He s wuth a good price. Sell 
him for what he 11 fetch." 

Mr. Potter stooped and patted the dog, who was 
trembling with fear, for ordinarily a collie is easily 
alarmed, and not very brave except when guarding his 
sheep, when he has the courage of a lion. 

" Well," began Mr. Potter, " what 11 you give for the 
dog. Come ! speak, and let the worst be known, for 
speaking may relieve you. If it don t, I 11 relieve you 
of the price of the dog, and you can take him with you." 

" Dollar ! " cried a voice in the crowd succinctly. 

" n quarter," said another. 


" Stop," cried Leon, fully aroused, now that his pet 
was actually offered for sale. " Mr. Potter, you shall 
not sell that dog. He is mine." 

" It s a lie ! " cried Miss Grath. Then pointing her 
bony finger at Leon, she continued : " Look at that un 
grateful wretch. Look at him. You all know who he 
is, and where he came from. My sister missed him, and 
fed him, and gin him his clothes all these years, and now 
arter she s dead, he s tryin to defraud me by claimin 
my property, s if he an t had enough outer my family 
a ready." 

" I ve never had anything from you, and would not 
accept it if it was offered and I was starving," cried 
Leon, white with anger. But as just as the words were, 
they rather injured his cause, for most of those present 
held ideas not very dissimilar from Miss Grath s, and 
they accepted her version and believed him ungrateful. 
The prejudice against him was not lessened by the intui 
tive knowledge that, poor though he was, he was better 
than they. So those who heard him did not hesitate to 
speak against him, and such phrases as " Nuss a ser 
pent and t will sting you," and " A beggar on horse 
back," reached his ears, and despite their inaptness, they 
wounded him. 

Mr. Potter, seeing the rising storm, essayed to stem the 
torrent, and exclaimed : 

" Don t show temper, friends ; anger and pride are 
both unwise ; vinegar never catches flies." 

Ther hain t no flies on Potter," cried a voice, and a 


general laugh followed. Then, in spite of his protest, 
Leon saw Lossy offered again for sale. 

Mr. Potter lifted the dog in his arms and said : 

" Now here s a dog, by name of Lossy. 
Just feel his fur, so fine and glossy. 
I m told that twixt his loud bow-wows 
He often fetches home the cows. 
Besides that, he can tend the sheep, 
And bring the butter in the churn. 
So buy him dear, or buy him cheap, 
He 11 eat no more than he can earn. 

" How much for the dog ? " 

The competition excited by the occurrences, and the 
verses, was now so great, that the bidding was spirited 
until fifteen dollars was reached, to which sum it had 
mounted by jumps of fifty cents. Then a man said 
quietly but distinctly : 

Twenty dollars," and a glad cry escaped from Leon, 
as he recognized Dr. Medjora s voice, and knew that his 
purpose was to restore his dog to him. But at the same 
instant Miss Grath also comprehended the situation, andi 
determined that Leon should not have Lossy. She cried 
out to Mr. Potter : 

" The dog s wuth twice as much. You kin stop 
sellin him. I 11 keep him myself. " 

At this Leon s hopes fell, only to be revived again 
by the auctioneer s words. Mr. Potter knew Miss 
("/rath thoroughly, and he readily appreciated the fact 
that she was selling the dog to spite the lad, and that, 
in withdrawing him, she was actuated by some sinister 
motive. Sympathizing with Leon, against whom he had 


none of the prejudices of the neighborhood, he turned 
now to Miss Grath and said : 

" You told me to sell him for what he would fetch. 
It s too late now to draw back." 

" It an t too late," screamed the infuriated woman ; 
" it s my dog, and I sha n t sell him." 

" Oh, you won t," said Mr. Potter. " The best-laid 
plans of mice and men aft gang aglee. Dr. Medjora 
gets the dog at twenty dollars." 

" It s no sale ! It s no sale ! " cried out Miss Grath. 
1 T ain t legal to sell my property agin my word." 

" Now, look here, Miss Grath," said Mr. Potter; "I m 
here to sell, and whatever I sell is sold. That dog s sold, 
and that settles it. If you dispute it, you jes say so, 
right now, and you kin sell the rest of this farm yourself. 
Now decide quick ! Is the sale of that dog all straight ? " 

Miss Grath, despite her anger, was shrewd enough 
to see that her interests would be ruined if she sus 
pended the sale. She could never hope to get the 
crowd together again, and no other auctioneer would 
obtain such good prices. So she was obliged to yield, 
though she did so with little grace. 

" Oh ! I spose ef you choose to be ugly bout it, I 
hain t got nothin more to say. Dr. Medjora kin have 
the dog, an much good may it do him. I hope he 11 
regret buyin it, some day." 

And so, through the cleverness of Mr. Potter, the 
poet-auctioneer, when Dr. Medjora and Leon started 
for New York on the following morning the collie went 
with them. 



LEON at this time was about twenty years old, but, as 
we have seen, he had already passed the crisis in his 
life which made a man of him. He was a curious 
product, considered as a New England country boy. 
Despite the fact that all of his life had been passed on 
the farm, except a brief period when he had been sent 
to another section, equally rural, he had adopted none of 
the idioms peculiar to the people about him. Without 
any noteworthy schooling, he could boast of being some 
thing of a scholar. I have already mentioned his pre 
dilection for the higher order of books, and by reading 
these he had undoubtedly obtained a glimpse of a vast 
field of learning ; but one may place his eye to a crack 
in a door and see a large part of the horizon, yet the 
door hides much more than the crack reveals, and the 
observer sees nothing except through the crack. So 
Leon, knowing much, knew less than he thought he did; 
and many ideas which he believed to be mature, and 
original products of his own brain, were but reflections 
of the authors whose works he had read, and whose 
deductions he had adopted, because he had read nothing 



by other writers contradicting them. Therefore he was 
exactly in that mental condition which would make him 
a good pupil, because he would be a disputative one. 
The student who accepts the teaching of his master 
without question, will acquire but a meagre grasp of 
knowledge, while he who adopts nothing antagonistic to 
his own reason, until his reason has been satisfied, may 
be more troublesome, because less docile, but his prog 
ress will be more real. 

That Leon had very decided convictions upon many 
topics, and that he would argue tenaciously in defence 
of his views, would not at all militate against his learn 
ing. Those ideas which were most firmly fixed in his 
mind, could readily be dislodged, if erroneous, for the 
very reason that they were not truly original with him 
self. Having adopted the teaching of one book, he 
could certainly be made to accept opposite theories, if 
another book, with more convincing arguments, should 
be brought to his notice. 

For these reasons, it might be said that his mind was 
in a plastic condition, ready to be moulded into per 
manent thoughts. With such a teacher as Dr. Medjora, 
he would learn whatever the Doctor taught ; he would 
adopt whatever theories the Doctor wished. Under the 
control of another master he might become the antith 
esis of what the Doctor would make of him. There 
fore it may be truly said that when he accepted Dr. 
Medjora s offer, he sealed his fate, as surely as when 
Faust contracted with Mephisto. 


Just as he had gleaned the ideas of authors, so also 
his conception of cities, and city life, had been taken 
from books. He had read works of travel, and thought 
that he was quite familiar with travelling. He was con 
sequently astonished to find how much at variance with 
the real, were his notions. When he found himself 
aboard of The Puritan, that palatial steamboat of the 
Fall River line, he was dazed by the magnificence and 
luxury, thus seen for the first time in his life. But later 
in the night, when he and the Doctor sat upon the 
upper deck, as they swiftly glided through the moonlit 
waters of Long Island Sound, he was so enraptured at 
this broader view of the Universe, that he felt a distinct 
pain as his thoughts recurred to Lake Massabesic, which 
now seemed so diminutive, and which only a few days 
before had been an ocean to him. Yet there was still 
the real ocean which he had not yet seen, and which 
would render the Sound as diminutive in comparison, 
as the lake. And so, also, we arrogant inhabitants of this 
planet may presently come to some other world so much 
greater, so much larger, so much more grand, that we will 
not even deign to turn a telescope towards the little world 
which we have left behind. In some such manner, 
Leon was leaving his little world behind him, and even 
already he was abandoning all thought of it, as his 
heart welled up and his soul expanded towards the 
greater world looming up before him. In that little 
town behind him he had lost his name, which indeed had 

never been his. lut in the great city which he approached, 


was he not destined to make a new name for himself ? 
He was young, and in answer to this mental question 
his answer was " Certainly ! " All young men see 
Fame just there just ahead of them ! They need but 
to stretch out a hand, and it is within their grasp. Yet, 
alas ! How few ever clutch it ! 

Dr. Medjora sat beside Leon for a long time in silence. 
He noticed the lad s absorption, and readily compre 
hended the mental effects produced. It suited his pur 
pose to remain silent. He wished his companion to 
become intoxicated by this new experience, for, in 
such a mood of abstraction, he hoped for an opportunity 
to accomplish a design which was of great importance 
to himself. He wished to hypnotize Leon. Why, I 
will explain later, but the chief reason at the present 
moment was this : 

Dr. Medjora had, as you know, observed Leon feeding 
the chipmunks, and had said to himself, " He has in 
herited the power." By this he meant Leon possessed 
that temperament which is supposed to render the in 
dividual most capable of controlling others. And let 
me say at once that I do not allude to any occult power. 
There is nothing whatever in connection with this his 
tory, which transcends known and recognized scientific 
laws. But, to express myself clearly, I may say that all 
persons are susceptible to impressions from suggestion. 
Those who fall asleep, because sleep has been suggested, 
are said to be hypnotic subjects ; while he who can pro 
duce sleep by suggestion in the greatest number of 


persons, may be said to have " the power " in its most 
developed form. But it is a power thoroughly well 
comprehended by scientists of to-day, and may be ac 
quired by almost any one to some extent, just as any one 
is susceptible to hypnotic influence, to a greater or less 
degree according to the conditions. I believe that 
there is no person living who cannot be hypnotized, by 
some living person, however well he may resist all others. 
Or in other words, there be some individuals so little 
susceptible to outside suggestions, so self-reliant, and so 
strong in their own ego, that it would be extremely diffi 
cult to produce true hypnosis in them. Yet the phenom 
enon is possible with even these, provided the hypnotizer 
be one who is a past-master in methods, and possesses 
the most effective power of conveying suggestion. 

Such a man was Dr. Medjora. Never yet had he met 
a human being who could resist him, if he exerted 
himself. He was a master of methods, possessing a 
knowledge of the minutest details of the psycholog 
ical aspect of the subject, and therefore the most power 
ful hypnotizer of the age, perhaps. One fact he had 
long recognized. That just as one individual is more 
susceptible than another, so an individual who might 
resist at one time, would be perfectly docile at another. 
So much depends upon the mental attitude of the sub 
ject. One of the favorable states is abstraction, for in 
such a condition the mind is off its guard, so to speak, 
and it may be possible that, by a sudden shock, the sug 
gestion to sleep, might be conveyed and be obeyed. 


Thus he was glad to note that Leon was losing him 
self in thought, because it would give him an oppor 
tunity to hypnotize the lad, and if he could once be 
thrown into that state, hypnosis could be re-produced 
thereafter very readily. It would only be necessary 
for the Doctor to suggest to Leon, while asleep, that he 
permit himself to be hypnotized in the future, and the 
possibility of resistance would be destroyed. 

Therefore the Doctor watched Leon, as a cat does a 
bird when seeking a chance to seize and destroy it. 
Several times he was about to make the attempt, but 
he hesitated. That he did so annoyed him, for it was a 
new experience to him to doubt his ability to accom 
plish a purpose. But, truly, he questioned the wisdom 
of what he meditated, in spite of the fact that he knew 
this to be a rare opportunity, which would never occur 
again. The boy would never, after this night, be so in 
toxicated by Nature as he was at this time. Even 
though Leon were, as the Doctor believed, one of those 
exceptional individuals who could successfully resist 
him, his will-power was for the time in abeyance, and a 
well-directed effort to throw him into hypnotic slumber 
promised success. Yet he could not overlook the other 
fact, that, were the attempt to prove a failure, it would 
render all future experiments doubly difficult. 

Thus an hour passed. There was no one on the upper 
deck besides these two. Leon had remained so still, so 
motionless for many minutes, that he might have been a 
corpse sitting there and gazing into the line of foam 


which trailed in the wake of the boat. He was fasci 
nated, why might he not be hypnotized ? Still, the 
Doctor was loath to take a risk. He called the lad s 
name, at first very softly. But he repeated it again, and 
again, in louder tones. Leon did not reply. His ab 
straction was so great that he did not hear. It was cer 
tainly a favorable moment. The Doctor rose slowly 
from his chair ; so slowly that he scarcely seemed to 
move, but in a few moments he stood erect. Then he 
paused, and for some time remained motionless. With 
a movement that was more a gliding than a step, one 
leg crept forward towards Leon, and then the other was 
drawn after it, thus bringing the Doctor nearer. Again 
he stood motionless. Again the manoeuvre was re 
peated, and now, still unnoticed, he stood beside the 
lad. The approach more than ever reminded one of a cat, 
only now one would think of a tiger rather than of the 
little domestic animal. For the Doctor looked tall and 
gaunt in the moonlight. Now he stooped slowly for 
ward, bending his back, as the tiger prepares to spring 
upon its prey, and now his mouth was near Leon s ear. 

The final moment had come ; the experiment was to 
be tried. But even now the Doctor had devised a 
scheme by which he hoped to lose nothing, even though 
he should fail. His first intention had been to cry out, 
" Go to sleep ! " a command which he had often seen 
obeyed instantly. This time the formula was changed. 
In a loud tone, which, however, was mellifluous and per 
suasive, he uttered these words : 


" You are asleep ! " 

He paused and anxiously awaited the result. For a 
brief instant success poised upon the verge of his desire. 
Leon s eyes closed, and his head drooped forward. 
Then, like lightning, there came a change. The lad 
jumped up, and started back, assuming an attitude of 
defiance, and a wrathful demeanor. He was entirely 
awake and in full control of his senses as he cried out : 

" You tried to mesmerize me ! " 

As swiftly the Doctor was again master of himself, and, 
recognizing defeat, he was fully prepared to assume con 
trol of the situation and twist circumstances so that they 
should culminate in advantage to himself. In the very 
moment of his first failure, his quick mind grasped at 
the hope that was offered by Leon s words. He had 
said " mesmerize," and this convinced Dr. Medjora that 
the word " hypnotize " was as yet unknown to him, and 
that all the later discoveries in psychical science must 
be as a sealed book to him. So with perfect calmness 
he replied : 

" I fail to see upon what you base such a senseless 
deduction. You have sat motionless for half an hour. 
I called you three or four times, and you did not reply. 
Then I came here and stood beside you, but you took 
no notice of me. Finally I said what I thought was 
true, You are asleep ! Instantly you jump up like a 
madman and accuse me of trying to mesmerize you. 
Now, why ? Explain ! " 

How could this youth cope with the skill of such a 


man ? He could not. As he listened to the Doctor s 
words and heard his frank and friendly speech, his 
fears were banished, his suspicions lulled, and he felt 
ashamed. Being honest, he expressed his thoughts : 

" I beg your pardon, Doctor. I think now that I 
must have been sleeping. Your words startled me, and, 
as I awoke, I spoke stupidly. Will you forgive me ? " 

There was a shade of anxiety in his tones, which 
demonstrated to the Doctor that he valued his friend 
ship, and feared to alienate his good will. Thus he 
knew that he had deftly dispelled doubt, and that noth 
ing had been lost. Indeed, something had been gained, 
for he knew now what he had only before suspected ; 
that Leon could not be hypnotized. Or, rather, not by 
any one else in the world besides himself, for he by no 
means abandoned his design. Only, when next he 
should make an attempt, he would take better precau 
tions, and he would succeed. So he thought. Now, it 
would be as well to continue the conversation, by dis 
cussing the suggested topic, for it would strengthen the 
lad s confidence, if he did not appear to shun it. 

" Forgive you, my boy," said the Doctor, " there is 
nothing to forgive. It was I who was stupid, for I 
should not have disturbed you so unexpectedly. But I 
am fond of studying human beings, and you have been 
very entertaining to me to-night. I have been observ 
ing the effect that Nature can produce upon a virgin 
mind, such as yours. You have been drinking in the 
grandeur of the world about us, until you were so 


enthralled that you had forgotten all except the emo 
tions by which you were moved. You were not asleep, 
but you were in an abstraction so deep that it was akin 
to sleep. I yielded to the temptation of saying what I 
did, merely to see what effect it would produce. I was 
certainly surprised at the result. That you should have 
been startled is natural enough, but how the idea of 
mesmerism occurred to you, bewilders me. What do you 
know about that mysterious subject ? " 

" Not very much," said Leon, with some diffidence. 
" As you may imagine, Doctor, I have not had a large 
library from which to choose. But I have read a trans 
lation of a work by Deleuze, which appears to discuss 
the subject thoroughly." 

" Ah ! I see. You have read Deleuze. I am familiar 
with the work. Well, then, tell me. After weighing the 
matter thoroughly in your own mind, do you believe it is 
possible for one person to mesmerize another ?" 

" I do not. Most emphatically I do not," said Leon. 

" Most emphatically you do not. A strong way to 
express your views, for which you must of course have 
convincing reasons. But if so, why were you afraid that 
I would do what you emphatically believe to be an 
impossibility?" The Doctor smiled indulgently as he 
asked this embarrassing question. 

" Because, as you have said, I was only half-awake," 
replied Leon, apologetically. 

The Doctor was now assured that Leon, even when he 
should come to think over the occurrences of the ni^ht 


when alone, would harbor no suspicion against him. So 
all would be safe. 

"Well, then," continued the Doctor, "tell me why you 
are so sure that mesmerism is not possible. You say you 
have read Deleuze. He claims that wonderful things 
may be accomplished." 

" So wonderful that a thinking man cannot believe 
them to be true." 

" But surely Deleuze was honest, and he relates many 
remarkable cases which he assures his readers occurred 
within his own cognizance." 

" That is very true. No one who reads the author s 
book could doubt the sincerity of his purpose and the 
truth of what he relates. Or rather I should say, one 
must believe that he does not wilfully deceive. But it 
must be equally evident that the man was deluded." 

" Why so ? " 

" It is difficult to tell exactly. But I know this, that 
after reading his work, which is intended to convince 
the skeptic, not only did his words leave me uncon 
vinced, but a positive disbelief was aroused. There are 
places where he makes assertions, which he admits he 
cannot explain. He tells of wonderful occurrences 
which he cannot account for, while, in spite of that, he 
does not hesitate to attribute them to mesmerism. Such 
teaching is unsatisfactory and unscientific." 

" Very true, but because Deleuze did not understand 
a phenomenon, does it logically follow that there is no 
explanation of it to be had ? " 


" Why, not at all, Doctor. But the explanation must 
eliminate it from the realm of the mysterious, and make 
it acceptable to the reason. In its present form it is 
utterly unacceptable. I cannot believe that one indi 
vidual may possess a power by which he may control his 
fellow-creatures. The idea is repugnant in the extreme. 
It lessens one s self-dependence. Do you believe in 
mesmerism ? " 

This was a direct question, and the Doctor thought 
that the subject had been pursued far enough. He had 
no desire to approach a point where he might be com 
pelled to give this inquiring youth an insight into the 
scientific side of hypnotism. He preferred to leave him 
wallowing in the mire of mesmerism. Consequently, he 
did not hesitate to reply : 

" No, Leon. I do not believe in mesmerism. Mesmer 
himself was a very erratic, unscientific man, who either 
did not or would not arrange his observations into scien 
tific order, from which logical deductions might have 
been made. Therefore, his whole teaching may be 
counted rather among the curiosities of literature, than 
as having any value to the mind of one who seeks the 
truth. Life is too short to waste much time upon such 
fruitless speculations." 

" I am glad that you agree with me," said Leon. " I 
was afraid from what you said that you might believe in 
that sort of thing." 

To this the Doctor made no reply, the words " that 
sort of thing " threatening to lead him upon dangerous 


ground again. He essayed, by a gentle digression, to 
divert the conversation into another direction. 

" Speaking of mesmerism, Leon, I suppose that you 
know that its advocates likened it to the power which 
reptiles are said to have over birds and small animals, 
whom they fascinate first, and then devour. Now I 
was much interested to note the familiarity with which 
the little chipmunks approached you this morning." 

" Did you see them ? " Leon was surprised, for he 
had not known how long the Doctor had been present. 

"Yes," replied the Doctor; "I watched you for 
some time. How is it that these little wild animals 
would come to you ? Disbelieving in mesmerism, have 
you yourself the power to charm or fascinate the lower 
animals ?" 

"Why, not at all, Doctor. Let me explain. First, as 
to the chipmunks. There was nothing wonderful about 
that, for though they are wild, they know me as well as 
though they had lived in the house with me. One day I 
found a dead chipmunk, and later I found the nest of 
young ones in a tree. I took food to them from day to 
day, and they grew to know me. Were it not that I have 
not been in the woods since the funeral until this morn 
ing, so that it is several days since the little fellows last 
saw me, they would have shown even greater friendliness 
than they did. I have often had them run up to my 
shoulders, and perch there eating what I would give 

" But what you tell me only makes me believe the 


more that you exert some power of fascination," said 
the Doctor, laughing jestingly. " You must teach me 
the secret of charming animals, Leon. Really you must." 
" I will do so gladly. It is very simple. The animals, 
the little ones I mean, are afraid of us. Banish their 
fear, and at the same time excite their instinct to take 
food where they can find it, and your desire is accom 
plished. For example, take the fish. If I go to the 
edge of Lake Massabesic at a certain spot, the fish will 
jump out of the water in their anxiety to receive food 
from my hands. I can even take the little fellows out of 
the water, and when I drop them in again, they pause 
but a few moments before venturing within my reach 
again. How did I train them to this ? I noticed that 
from my habit of throwing the old bait out of my boat 
when landing, the fish had made the spot a feeding place. 
I threw them some crumbs of bread, and they hurried to 
the surface to snatch it, diving swiftly down again to eat. 
I tried an experiment. Holding the bread in my hand, 
I dipped my arm deep into the water, and allowed it to 
remain motionless. For a long time the fish were very 
shy. They stood off at a distance, and gazed longingly, 
but they did not approach this strange object. I crushed 
the bread into small bits and withdrew my arm. In a 
moment they w 7 ere all feeding. After doing this a num 
ber of times on successive days, at last one fellow, more 
venturesome than the others, made a swift dash forward, 
and grabbing a bit of the bread from my hand as quickly 
swam off witli it. Others, observing his success, followed 


his example. Within a few more days, they did not hesi 
tate, but approached as soon as my hand appeared below 
the water, and presently they were not alarmed if I moved 
my hand about among them. The first time that I at 
tempted to take hold of one, I created a disturbance 
which made them shy for a few days ; but after a time 
they learned that I would not harm them, whereas I al 
ways brought them food. Why should they not trust 
me ? So you see, Doctor, there is no witchcraft about it." 

" No ! Your explanation of how you charm fish re 
moves it from the region of the mysterious, and I have 
no doubt that what Mesmer observed, could be as satis 
factorily explained if we only knew how." 

So the subject was dropped, and both retired to their 
staterooms, as the hour was late. Dr. Medjora, when 
alone, occupied himself with the serious problem before 
him. He had undertaken a charge, the education of a 
youth endowed with unusual intelligence. To teach him 
all that he wished him to know, it became an essential 
part of his plan that Leon should be hypnotized. How 
should he accomplish it ? 

Leon slept soundly, or if he dreamed at all, it was of 
the name which he would make for himself. 

Early on the following morning the steamboat landed 
her passengers, and Leon set foot upon the shores of 
New York City. He had sat upon the deck for more 
than an hour, marvelling at the extent of the two cities 
between which they passed down the East river ; he had 
gazed with wondering eyes upon the great bridge, as- 


tonished that the name of the engineer was not known 
to him ; and the thought hurt, for if one might build 
such a structure and not be more widely known to fame, 
how was he, a poor country boy, to earn distinction ? He 
had admired the beautiful Battery, the Statue of Liberty, 
the lovely bay, the tall buildings, and had felt that he 
was almost approaching Paradise. But at last he was 
ashore, and in New York, the Mecca of all good citizens 
of the New World, and he felt correspondingly elated. 

Cabs and carriages were offered by shouting hackmen, 
with stentorian voices, and insinuating manners, but the 
Doctor pushed through the throng, and crossed the 
street to where two magnificent black horses, attached 
to a luxurious carriage, tossed their heads and shook 
their silver chains. A man in livery opened the door, 
and Dr. Medjora made a sign to Leon to get in, which 
he did, for the first time beginning to realize that his new 
found friend was a man of wealth. 

The drive seemed endless, and if Leon was surprised 
at the length of the city as he viewed it from the river, 
he was more amazed now, as the carriage rolled rapidly 
through continuous rows of houses built up solidly on 
each side. In reality they drove almost the entire length 
of the Island, for their destination was that same place 
where the Doctor had once set fire to his house. 

Everything, however, was changed. Where once was 
an old dwelling on a rugged lot of land, there was now 
a royal mansion within a spacious park. This was the 
home of Dr. Emanuel Medjora and his wife. They had 


no children. But a retinue of servants, and frequent 
arrivals of company, kept the two from feeling lonely. 

The Doctor ushered Leon into a cosy reception-room, 
made pleasant by sunshine, and the light morning s 
breeze, and there bade him Wait a moment, while lie 
summoned his wife. But Leon was not left to himself 
long, for within a few moments a door opened and 
Madame Medjora entered. She insisted that she should 
always be called Madame, and therefore in deference to 
her nationality, as well as to her wishes, I give her that 

Hearing the carriage, she had hurried to meet her 
husband, but by accident they had not met, and she was 
surprised to see the stranger of whom she had heard 
nothing, and whose arrival was therefore entirely unex 
pected. Leon arose and bowed to her, in courteous and 
graceful greeting, but, angered because she had not been 
advised of his coming, she asked with brusqueness. 

" Who are you ? " 

" I came with Dr. Medjora," replied Leon, somewhat 
startled by the unfriendliness of her manner. 

" But who are you ? What is your name ? " 

Alas ! The inconvenience of having no name. In a 
moment Leon was all embarrassment. 

" My name?" He paused and stammered. "My 
name is Leon Here he stopped, blushed, and 

looked away. 

" Leon ! Leon what ? " asked Madame Medjora, in 
tones far from conciliatory. Leon did not reply. She 


continued, now thoroughly aroused. " You are ashamed 
of your name, are you ? What is your name ? I will 
know it ! What is your last name, your full name ? " 

" Leon Grath is his name ! " said a voice behind, and, 
turning, they both saw Dr. Medjora. 



MADAME MEDJORA turned at the sound of her hus 
band s voice with mingled emotion, pleasure at see 
ing him at home again, for she still loved him with the 
passionate ardor of those earlier days, and anxiety, 
because her keen ear detected a tone of reproval in his 
words. Had she been a thoroughly wise woman that 
note of warning would have served to make her desist, 
but she was not to be baffled, when once she had deter 
mined to learn the meaning of anything that had 
aroused her curiosity or excited her suspicion. So 
instead of abandoning the subject, and welcoming her 
husband with an effusiveness which would have 
smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead, she turned 
upon him almost angrily, and said : 

" Why do you prompt him ? Is he an idiot that he 
cannot tell his name ? " 

" Not at all," said the Doctor, hopeful of dispersing 
the threatened storm, and therefore becoming slightly 
explanatory and conciliatory. " You have evidently 
confused Mr. Grath by your manner of questioning him, 
that is all. He is a country boy, unused to city ways, 

i7 257 


and you must excuse him if he is not as ready with an 
answer, as he will be after we make a citizen of him." 

" He must be from the country indeed," was the 
sneering reply. " He must have been raised in a forest, 
to be so confused because I ask him his name." Then 
altering her tone, and speaking more rapidly, she con 
tinued : " Do not think that your wife is a fool, Dr. 
Medjora. Even a dog knows his name. There is 
something about this that you wish to hide from me. 
But I will not submit to it. You shall not bring any 
nameless beggars into my house ! " 

Leon uttered a cry as though wounded, and started to 
leave the apartment, but the Doctor, livid with anger, 
detained him by clutching his arm, as he would have 
passed, and turning upon his wife uttered but one word : 

" Cora ! " 

That was all, but his voice implied such a threat, that 
the woman shrunk back, awed, and frightened, and 
utterly subdued, she merely murmured : 

" Emanuel, forgive me ! " 

"Go to your room ! " ejaculated the Doctor, sternly, 
and after one appealing glance at him, which he ignored, 
she swiftly glided through the door, and closed it softly 
after her. Thus the two men were left to themselves. 
Leon was the first to speak : 

" Dr. Medjora," he began, " I thank you most heartily 
for what you have intended to do for me, but we have 
made a mistake. I cannot enter your home now. I 
can never hope that your wife will forget what has oc- 


curred to-day. Therefore were I to remain, my pres 
ence must become intolerably obnoxious to her ; and 
her unhappiness would be but a blight upon your own 

" Perhaps you are right," said the Doctor quietly, and 
as though meditating upon the affair. " It is possible 
that you would not be as happy here as I would wish 
you to be. But if you go away from me, what will you 

" Work ! " answered the youth, succinctly. 

" Well answered," said the Doctor. " But, my boy, 
that is more easily decided upon than accomplished. 
You are a stranger, not only in the city, but to city man 
ners and city methods. You would start out with deter 
mination to succeed, and in the first day you would 
apply at many places. But at them all you would be 
met with such questions as Where did you work last? 
What experience have you ? What references can 
you offer ? You would answer them all unsatisfac 
torily, and you would be dismissed with a shrug of the 

" I have no doubt, Doctor, that it will be hard to 
obtain a place ; but, as ignorant as I am, I have formed 
an idea upon this subject. I believe that in this coun 
try, where surely nine tenths of all men earn a liveli 
hood, the small proportion of idlers have themselves to 
blame for their condition. Of course there must be a 
meritorious few who are unfortunate, but I speak of the 
greater number. Therefore I think that if I seek work, 


without any scruples as to what work it may be, I shall 
not starve." 

" But are you ready to go right out into the world, 
single handed ? Do you mean that you would begin the 
battle at once, to-day ?" 

" I do ! " 

" You do ? Then I have faith in you. I, too, believe 
that you will succeed. I wish you God speed ! " 

Leon said " Thank you," and then there was a pause. 
In a moment, however, Leon started towards the front 
door, and the Doctor followed him in silence. The 
youth took down his hat from the jutting spur of a 
gnarled cedar stump, which, polished and varnished, 
served as a hat-rack, and a moment later stood upon the 
stoop extending his hand in farewell. 

" Dr. Medjora," said Leon, " you must not think that 
I am ungrateful, nor that I am too proud to accept your 
aid. I am only doing what I deem to be my duty after 
after what has passed. Good-by." 

" Good-by, Leon," said the Doctor, shaking his hand 

Leon started away, and, passing along the path, was 
nearing the gate that led to the street, when suddenly 
he paused, turned, and quickly retraced his steps. He 
found the Doctor standing where he had parted from him. 
Rushing up the steps, he essayed to speak, but a sob choked 
his utterance, and it was with difficulty that he said : 

" Lossy ! " Then he stopped, looking anxiously at 
the Doctor. It was surely a pretty picture. The lad 


had not hesitated to cast himself against the rude pricks 
of Fate, but the recollection of his dog made him 

" Lossy will be brought here this afternoon," said the 
Doctor. " I have already sent my man down to get him 
out of his box, and bring him. What do you wish me to 
do about him ? " 

"Oh, Doctor," exclaimed the boy, appealingly, "if 
you would only keep my dog ! You were kind enough 
to buy him for me. But now now unless you will 
keep him awhile why why Here he broke down 
utterly and ceased to speak, while a tear-drop in each eye 
glistened in the sunlight which crossed his handsome 
features, illuminated by the love that welled up from his 
heart ; love for this dumb beast that had been his friend 
for so long a time. 

" I will keep Lossy for you, Leon," began the Doctor, 
but he was interrupted by Leon, who grasped his hand 
impulsively, crying : 

" Heaven bless you, Doctor ! " 

" But, I will keep you, also, my boy, " continued the 
Doctor, tightening his grasp of Leon s hand, so that he 
could not get away. 

" No ! No ! " cried the lad. 

" Yes ! Yes ! " said the Doctor. " Now come back 
into the house and let me explain myself." Half forci 
bly he drew the youth after him, and they returned to 
the room where they had first been. Then the Doctor 
resumed : 


" Leon, did you suppose that I meant to let you go 
away ? That I would bring you so far and then aban 
don you to your own resources ? Never for one instant 
did I harbor such a thought. But when you spoke as 
you did, I determined to try you ; to see whether you 
were speaking in earnest, or for effect. Therefore I 
seemed to acquiesce. Therefore I let you go without 
even offering you some money, or telling you to come 
back to me if in distress. My boy, you stood the trial 
nobly. I was proud of you as you walked down the 
path, and I was about to follow you when I saw you 
pause and turn back. For an instant I feared that you 
had wavered, but I was more than gratified that it was 
to plead for the dog, and not for yourself that you 

" But Doctor, how can I remain ? " asked the lad, 
helplessly, for already he began to feel the necessity of 
submitting to the domination of this man, as so many 
others had experienced. 

" How can you remain ? Why, simply by doing so. 
You mean, what will my wife think ? She will think 
just what I wish her to think. It is a habit of hers to 
do so." Here he laughed significantly. "But you need 
not fear Madame. You believe that she will resent 
what she would term an intrusion. But you are mis 
taken. You will meet her next at dinner, and you will 
see that she will be quite friendly. In fact, she did not 
understand matters this morning. She was angry with 
me because I had not notified her that I would bring 


home a guest, but when I shall have talked with her 
that will be all changed." 

So the matter was determined, and, as usual, Dr. Med- 
jora s will decided the issue. Meanwhile, Madame had 
ascended to her room in high dudgeon. Since the day 
when we last saw her she had altered very little. Her 
most prominent characteristics had not changed, except 
as they had become more fully developed. But in many 
ways this development had been deceptive, for, whereas 
many who knew her believed that certain unpleasing 
features had been eliminated from her character, the 
truth was that she had merely suppressed them, as a 
matter of policy. 

The union of such a woman with a man like Dr. 
Medjora, was an interesting study in matrimonial psy 
chology. In all marriages one of two results is usually 
to be anticipated. The stronger individuality will dom 
inate the other and mould it into submission, or the two 
characters will become amalgamated, each altering the 
other, until a plane is reached on which there is possible 
a harmony of desires. In this case neither of these 
conditions had been fulfilled, although nearly all who 
were acquainted with the Doctor and his wife supposed 
that the husband was the ruling spirit. The truth, how 
ever, was that while Dr. Medjora controlled his wife in 
important matters, he had by no means succeeded in 
merging her character into his own. Where contention 
arose, she obeyed his commands, but she never sub 
mitted her will. She surrendered, like a wise general, 


to superior force, but she secretly resented her defeat, 
and sought a way of retreat by which in the end she 
might compass her own designs. 

By these means, she had deceived all of her acquaint 
ances, and she enjoyed the idea that she had also 
deceived her husband. In this she was mistaken. Dr. 
Medjora understood thoroughly that his wife only 
yielded to him under protest, and in many instances he 
had refrained from making a move, when by doing so 
he could have thwarted her subsequent efforts to have 
her own way. Thus he adroitly avoided open warfare, 
satisfied that in secret strategy he was his wife s equal, 
if not her superior. In this manner they had lived 
together for so many years, enjoying their relationship 
as much as is usual with married folks, and keeping up 
an outward show that caused all to believe that, with 
them, matrimony was a great success. And so it was, 
if one could only overlook the fact that beneath this 
semblance of happiness there smouldered a fire, which 
might at any time be aroused by a chance spark, and 
grow into a blaze which would consume the whole fabric 
of their existence. The embers of this fire were, jeal 
ousy and suspicion on the side of the woman, and 
secretiveness in the man. Madame Medjora had never 
forgotten that her inquiry as to whether her husband 
had had a child by his previous wife had been unan- 
swed ; nor had she quite abandoned the hope of satis 
fying herself vpon the subject. 

During the later years, she had much regretted to see 


what she considered one source of power slowly slipping 
away from her. In the beginning, her husband had not 
hesitated to call upon her for funds with which to 
advance his interests, but as the years passed his own 
resources had increased so rapidly, that he was now 
entirely independent of her, and, indeed, owing to 
shrinkages in the values of her property, he was really 
richer than she. The house in which they lived had 
been rebuilt by him, and by degrees he had paid off the 
mortgages out of his earnings, until he owned it freed 
from debt. 

So, as she sat in her room and meditated upon the fact 
that she had said that Leon should not be admitted to 
the house, she remembered with a feeling of bitterness 
that she was the mistress in the house only by right of 
wifehood, and not because she held any privileges 
arising from proprietorship. 

She had been anticipating pleasure from the reunion 
with her husband, and now, because of " that country 
boy," she had received only unkind words from the 
Doctor. Naturally, she exonerated herself from all fault, 
and, because of her love, she would not blame her hus 
band. There was no other course but to attribute the 
whole trouble to Leon. But for him, she argued, all 
would have been pleasant, therefore he must bear the 
brunt of her resentment. Already she began to hate 
him. To hate him as only a tropical temperament can 
hate. She was in this mood when the Doctor entered. 
.\t once she arose to greet him. In an instant she hid 


within the depths of her bosom all emotions save those 
of love, and any one, other than the Doctor, would have 
believed that she harbored no unpleasant recollections 
or ill feeling because of the recent scene. He was not 
deceived. He had lived with her for more than fifteen 
years, and in that time he had appraised her correctly. 
Now, however, it suited him best to accept her caresses, 
and to return them with a show of warmth, which made 
the blood course faster through her veins, the more so 
because she had expected him to be angry, and because 
he rarely exhibited much feeling. This wily man well 
knew the weak spot in this woman s armor, and when he 
most desired to sway her actions, he first touched her heart. 

" Well, cara mia, are you glad to have me with you 
again?" He folded her close to his breast, and kissed 
her lips. She nestled within his arms, and returned the 
salute rapturously. Presently he spoke again. " You 
were naughty, down stairs, little one ? " 

There was scarcely a reproach in his voice ; he spoke 
rather as an indulgent parent chides an erring, but be 
loved child. She looked up into his eyes and merely 

" You will forgive me ? " 

Some may doubt that the warmer demonstrations of 
love could survive the destroying influences of a com 
panionship covering so many years, and be still expressed 
with the fervor of youth. To such I say, what has not 
come within your own experience is not necessarily false. 
Love, especially in woman, is a hardy plant and will 


blossom and flower, long after its earlier excitations have 
ceased to exist. The beauty of form, and attractiveness 
of manner, which first arouses the tender passion within 
our breast, may pass away from the object of our 
admiration, and yet our love may be deeper, fuller, and 
wider than at its inception. Yea, it may even retain its 
fullest demonstrativeness. In many cases it thrives 
most by harsh treatment, where it might expire by 
over-tending. Madame Medjora s affection was of this 
sort. Had her husband yielded to her all that she 
demanded, she would long ago have been surfeited, and 
not improbably she would have left him. This, however, 
he had never done. She had always feared that he did 
not love her as she yearned to be loved, and therefore 
she was ever ready with cajolery, flattery, and other 
means familiar to women, to win from him a fuller 

At this moment, intoxicated by his caresses, she spoke 
from her heart when she asked him to forgive her. The 
slight reproof of his words, however gently spoken, was 
the tiny bit of cloud upon her present clear sky of joy. 
She wished to dissipate it utterly, and then bask in the 
full sunshine of his love, as dear to her to-day as before 
her nuptials. But by no means did she regret the act 
which had called forth his speech, except as it affected 
her momentary happiness. She was ready to yield out 
wardly to anything that he might demand of her in such 
a mood, but, later, she would return to her purpose with 
zeal. That purpose, in this instance, would be to make 


Leon as miserable as she could if he remained, but to 
have him out of the house if possible. The game was 
now worth watching, for both players were very skilful, 
and each was intent upon carrying the day eventually. 
Each was as patient as persistent. 

" You ask me to forgive you, Cora," was the Doctor s 
reply. " Do you admit that you behaved very badly ? " 

"Now you are going to scold," said his wife, in a 
demure tone that sounded odd from one of her years. 
But Madame often assumed the airs of youthfulness, 
without realizing how poorly they suited her. 

" I would never scold you, Cora, if you would only 
think always before you act. You have been both unwise 
and unreasonable." 

" I would not have been if you had informed me in 
advance that the boy was coming. But you never tell 
me anything, Emanuel." 

" Perhaps I should have done so in this case. But 
I only decided yesterday, just before I left the country. 
A letter would not have reached you, and I would not 
telegraph, because you are always frightened by a 

" The horrid things ! I hate telegrams ! " 

" Exactly ! It was from consideration for you that I 
did not notify you. As soon as I reached home I came 
here to find you and explain, but you had run down the 
other stairway, and so unfortunately you met Leon before 
I intended you should." 

" Leon Grath ? " There was an accent upon the last 


name, and an inflection of the voice very delicately 
expressed, which intimated that there was a doubt. Ma 
dame could not resist speaking thus quickly, hoping that 
a glance, an expression, however fleeting, might cross the 
Doctor s face, which would be a clue upon which she 
might base her future investigation. But she gained 
nothing by the manoeuvre, and the Doctor continued, as 
though unsuspicious of her intent. 

"Yes, Leon Grath. Sit down and I will tell you about 
him. Some years ago I first met Leon, while hunting in 
the vicinity of his home. He had broken his leg, and I 
set it for him. Subsequently in succeeding years we 
have hunted together. This summer I was intending to 
look him up, as a companion on a fishing excursion. 
Arriving in his neighborhood, I learned that his mother 
had just died, leaving no will, and that the farm would 
be sold and the boy left penniless, through a technicality 
which made the small estates revert to the surviving sis 
ters. These old hags hated Leon, and, consequently, 
from a comfortable home, he was about to become an I 
outcast. I therefore decided to bring him home with 
me. He will now live with us." 

" Forever ? " gasped Madame, surprised to learn that, 
instead of a guest, the lad was destined to be a perma 
nent addition to their household. 

" Forever ! " replied the Doctor, with just a little se 
verity ; enough to check the expression of resentment 
which he saw rising. Then in order to give her time to 
regain control of herself he went on. " Yes ! I have 


long needed an assistant, and I am sure that Leon will 
prove an apt pupil and rapidly learn enough to become 
useful to me. However, I may be mistaken. He may 
prove a failure, and then I should find him a position 
elsewhere." This was offered as a sort of compromise 
for her acceptance. He held out the possibility that 
Leon would leave them. Madame was in nowise de 
ceived. She had appreciated the tone of her husband s 
voice as he uttered the word, " Forever," and she knew 
that Leon would never leave them on account of prov 
ing a failure as a student. However, she accepted the 
situation, and assumed a satisfaction which was mere 

"Now. that I understand the facts, Emanuel, I shall 
do all in my power to make the boy happy while he is 
here, even though it be only for a short time." The last 
words were in response to her husband s suggestion, but 
he understood her motive as well as she had compre 
hended his. Thus they fenced with one another. 

" I knew that you would do so, Cora," replied the 
Doctor. " Will you come down now and speak to Leon 
before I take him out with me ? I must have some 
clothing ordered for him." 

Together they descended to where Leon sat awaiting, 
them, and the youth s fears were set at rest, for the time 
being at least. Madame approached him with her most 
alluring manner, and welcomed him, in words, to his new 
home. She even asked him to forget her brusque- 
ness at their first meeting, and then, suggesting that he 


must be hungry, rang a bell and ordered light refresh 

The Doctor sat apart from them, apparently looking 
over his letters, but in reality observing closely all that 
transpired, and while Leon was thoroughly charmed by 
the altered manner of his hostess, Dr. Medjora decided, 
within his own mind, that in relation to this boy his 
wife s actions would require the closest scrutiny. 

Presently a gong sounded, and a few moments later a 
servant announced : 

"Judge Dudley. Miss Dudley." 

The Judge came in with extended hand, and was 
warmly greeted by the Doctor, while the young lady 
went up to Madame, who kissed her on her cheek, and 
received her with an outward show of cordiality, which 
a close observer might have seen was but a polite veneer. 
The Doctor hastened to bring Leon forward, and pre 
sented him first to the Judge, and then to Miss Agnes 

The young people bowed their acknowledgments, and 
as they raised their heads, so that their eyes met, both 
started slightly. Leon was astonished to recognize the 
face of the girl whom he had met when studying Venus, 
and whose image had recurred to him that night on 
Lake Massabesic. 



AFTER the trial of Dr. Medjora, the young men who 
had so successfully defended him became rapidly promi 
nent. Within six months they were retained in another 
celebrated case, and won new laurels. Within five years 
they were counted among the first lawyers of the Metrop 
olis, and had already a practice which assured them ease 
and comfort for their declining years. 

Mr. Dudley continued to be the ardent student that he 
had always been, and those who knew how well versed he 
was in law, were not at all surprised when he was eventu 
ally made a judge, a position which at this time he had 
held with honor for five years. He had achieved well- 
deserved fame. Aside from his undoubted probity, he 
really graced his position, for it was very seldom that any 
of his rulings were reversed by the higher courts. 

I may mention here, parenthetically, that Mr. Bliss had 
also risen in his profession, and had just been elected 
District Attorney, having previously acquitted himself 
well as an assistant to his predecessor. 

Agnes Dudley, the Judge s daughter, was eighteen years 
of age, having been born about a year after the Medjora 
trial. Indeed, Dr. Medjora always called her his god- 



child, because he had been present at her birth, and had 
enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with her and her par 
ents throughout the years that followed. Judge Dudley 
had not merely defended Dr. Medjora as a matter of 
business. Having no positive opinion at the beginning 
of the trial, he had become convinced during its prog 
ress, and especially while his client was on the witness- 
stand, that Dr. Medjora was entirely innocent of the 
crime with which he was charged. This feeling was in 
tensified when the jury showed an agreement with him, 
by acquitting the Doctor, and, as a result, an intense sym 
pathy was aroused in his breast for one who seemed to 
have wrongfully undergone such an ordeal. For a man 
must suffer in reputation when once the finger of sus 
picion is pointed in his direction, and it is out of the 
power of the State to repair the harm which has been 
done. Thus, from the position of client, Mr. Dudley 
elevated the Doctor into that place in his regard occu 
pied by his warmest friends. 

Dr. Medjora had been quick to appreciate the affilia 
tion of a man of brains, such as he recognized Judge 
Dudley to be, and, therefore, the friendship had thriven. 
None exalted the legal ability of Mr. Dudley higher than 
did the Doctor, and no one valued Dr. Medjora s pro 
fessional skill more than did Mr. Dudley. Under these 
circumstances, of course the Doctor was intrusted with 
the medical care of the lawyer s family, and thus it was 
natural that he should feel a paternal regard for his 
friend s dauhter. 


If he loved Agnes, she returned his affection in full 
measure. She used to say, even when a little tot, that 
she had two papas, and if asked which she loved best, 
she would reply : " Bofe of em." 

As she grew older, of course she discriminated between 
her father and the Doctor, but if Judge Dudley received 
the greater share of her demonstrations of affection, the 
Doctor was more than satisfied with what was allotted to 

In proportion as the Doctor loved the child, so his 
wife disliked her, though she never exhibited her feelings 
openly. Indeed, in this one matter she had succeeded 
in deceiving her husband, who, astute as he was in all 
other things, had never suspected that Madame harbored 
any ill-feeling against the girl. But Agnes herself was 
not very old when she began to understand, and as her 
wisdom increased with her years, she became less and 
less demonstrative towards the Doctor when the wife was 
present. Women detect these hidden heart-throbs with 
an instinct which is peculiar to their sex, and which 
transcends reason, in that it is unfailing, however illogi 
cal it may seem to a man. 

Agnes was a rare child, a rarer girl, and one of the 
rarest of women as she matured. Without having a 
beautiful face, measured by the rules of high art, she 
was endowed with a countenance which might escape 
notice, but which, having once attracted observation, 
was never to be forgotten. Hers was a face that the 
least imaginative could readily recall in a dark room, 


and by an operation of the mind which produces images 
subjectively, summon up a hallucination of the girl, as 
distinct in lineament as though she were present in the 
flesh. An artist had proven this by sitting in his studio, 
lighted only by a candle, that he might see his drawing- 
board, and he had succeeded in producing a portrait of 
Agnes, as true to life as was possible. He claimed after 
ward that, without difficulty, he had projected his mental 
image of her against the dark background of his room, 
and that he had seen her as clearly as though she had 
sat for him. 

From one point of view, then, it might be said that 
she had a strong face, by which I would mean that it 
would make an indelible impression upon the mind that 
observed her closely. There is a psychological reason 
for this, which I must ask you to look at with me if you 
wish to know Agnes. One dead face differs from an 
other merely in the outlines of form. A living face 
differs from all others, and is different itself in varying 
moods, because there is something within the form which 
animates it. This is intellect. Some are poor in this, 
while others are richly endowed. The greater the intel 
lect, the more distinctively individual will be the face, 
and it is this individuality which marks the features, 
differentiating the countenance from all others about it, 
so that it leaves a deeper impression upon the brain, 
just as a loud noise is heard, or a bright flash seen, the 
more intensely. 

Agnes s pre-eminent characteristic was her intellectu- 


ality. She absorbed books, as a sponge does water, with 
out apparent effort, and as a sponge may be squeezed 
and made to yield up nearly as much as it had drawn 
in, so Agnes, if catechised, would show that she had a 
permanent grasp on what she had studied. She devel 
oped a fondness for the classics, and for law, which 
delighted her father, and as her mother died when she was 
nearing her fifteenth year, they grew to be very close 
companions. The father, deprived of the support and 
encouragement always afforded by a true and well- 
beloved wife, gradually leaned more and more upon his 
daughter, who showed herself so worthy of affiliating 
with him mentally. It was therefore not very long 
before her services became indispensable to him in 
finding references in his law library, and in many ways 
connected with his profession. 

Of two other things in connection with Agnes I must 
speak. Physically she was the perfection of ideal 
womanhood. She was strong in limb and body, yet 
possessed all the grace of contour essential to the fem 
inine scheme of beauty. She had never been corseted 
in her life, and yet her figure was superb, being well 
rounded and full, yet so supple that every muscle was 
obedient to her will. She could ride a horse, leap a 
fence, swim, fish, and row a boat as well and untiringly 
as a man, yet in nothing was she masculine. She had 
cultivated all of those physical possibilities of her 
body, which it should be the privilege of all women to 
do, without transgressing some rule of society which has 


been fashioned to protect the weaker specimens of the 
sex, rather than to develop the dormant energies of 
womankind. It was her constant boast that neither 
rain nor sun, nor any untoward freak of the elements, 
could deter her from pursuing a pre-arranged pur 
pose. She never " caught cold." In truth she had 
never been ill one whole day since her birth. 

The other matter may seem a slight one, as I describe 
it, but were you to meet the girl, you would notice it 
very quickly. I allude to her manner of speech. We all 
of us, when writing, are careful in forming our sentences. 
We spell all words in full, avoiding abbreviations. But 
note well the speech of even the most liberally educated 
and carefully nurtured, and what do we discover ? 
That our English is sadly defective, not merely in 
grammatical construction, but, more particularly, in 
pronunciation, and in enunciation. We slur many 
letters, and merge many words, the one into the other. 
We are so pressed for time that we cannot pause to 
breathe between words ; our sentences have no commas, 
and sometimes not even periods, that can be recognized 
as such. In our hurry we use abbreviations whenever 
possible. We say " don t," " won t," " can t," and many 
others that we " should n t." 

Agnes never did this. Her language was always as 
correct, her pronunciation as perfect, and her enunci 
ation as distinct, as though she were constantly study 
ing to be a purist. You say that she must have been 
affected ! But you are wrong. Not for an instant did 


she make such an impression upon any one. In this, as 
in all things, she was merely her natural self. It was a 
charm to the ear to hear her in conversation. Her 
voice was so musical, and her intonation so pleasant. I 
remember how attractive to me it was to listen to her as 
she would say " I shall let you, etc." pronouncing the 
" t " and the " y " without effort and yet each distinctly. 
How much prettier than the " let chou " which so com 
monly assails the ear ! Ah ! You are saying that you 
do not so merge words ; but be honest, and observe 
when next you essay such a phrase. 

It was by the merest chance that the Judge and 
Agnes called on the very day of Leon s arrival. They 
were en route for the race-track, and passing near the 
Doctor s home, the Judge turned his horses in the 
direction of his friend s house to inquire when he was 
expected to return. He was delighted to meet him. 

Greetings having been exchanged they began a gen 
eral conversation. 

" What have you been doing up in the country, Doc 
tor ? " asked the Judge. " Fishing, I suppose ? " 

" You might say," answered Dr. Medjora, " that I have 
been a fisher of men. I brought one back with me, you 
see." He indicated Leon by a wave of his hand. The 
Judge glanced at the youth, and awaited a further 

" Leon and I are old friends," continued the Doctor. 
" I met him first when he needed my services to help him 
with a broken leg. But I have accepted his assistance 


many times since, when, without him, I might never have 
found my way back to civilization from the jungles into 
which I had strayed. For the future I need him so 
much that I have brought him home with me, to remain 

" Indeed ! " said the Judge, much interested, for if 
Leon were to be always with his friend, it was of more 
than passing moment to himself. " In what way do you 
need him ? " 

" Judge, as you know, my good wife here has not 
given me the son that I have longed for." Madame 
scowled, enraged by the speech which however had not 
been meant to wound her. The Doctor had not thought 
of her at all, but merely mentioned what was a fact. 
Therefore I have no heir. I do not mean in con 
nection with my worldly goods. I speak of my profes 
sion. I wish a student to whom I may impart my 
methods, so that after my day has passed my people may 
still have some one to depend upon. You see, I look 
upon my practice, much as a shepherd would consider his 
sheep. I am responsible for them. They depend upon 
me to keep them out of danger. I consider it a duty to 
supply a successor to myself." 

" And this young gentleman is to be he ? " asked the 

" Leon is my choice before all whom I have known. 
Above all others I have decided that he is the most 
worthy of the trust that I shall impose in him." The 
Doctor spoke feelingly. 


"Young man," said the Judge, addressing Leon, " I 
hope you appreciate the rare opportunity offered to you 
by my friend. If you are really capable of becoming 
his successor, then you are destined to be a power in 
the community, as he is to-day." 

" Judge Dudley," said Leon, " I know that I am most 
fortunate. Dr. Medjora has taken me from beggary, 
and placed before me a future which would tempt any 
young man. But, to me, it means more than a salvation 
from drudgery ; it means more than a high-road to for 
tune. I feel that I am destined to realize the hopes of 
my life, the yearnings of all my past days. I shall have 
a chance to acquire learning, to cultivate my intellect, 
to gain knowledge, which in my mind is the supremest 

The Judge was somewhat surprised to hear such words 
from a country lad, still habited in clothing more suited 
to a farmer than to one with such aspirations. He said : 

" Young man, you interest me. Evidently you have 
learned to think for yourself. Come, tell me ! Why do 
you lay such store by knowledge, when the rest of man 
kind are crying for money ? " 

" Money ! Money ! Money ! " repeated Leon with a 
contemptuous curl of the lip. " Judge Dudley, 1 am 
nearing my majority, and I can say, that in all my life 
I do not think that I have owned more than fifty dollars. 
My food, clothing, and a home, have been provided for 
me, but aside from that I have not spent more than the 
sum named, and most of that went for books. So, you 


see, one may live without wealth, if enough to cover 
actual necessities be his. Without knowledge, a man 
would be an idiot. I think that is a logical proposition. 
If you grant that, then the less knowledge one has, the 
nearer he must be to the imbecile, and the more he ac 
quires, the closer he approaches the highest stage of 
existence. Money we leave behind us at death. Knowl 
edge, on the contrary, not only goes with us, but is really 
the only guarantee the individual has of a continuance 
of existence beyond the grave." 

The Judge became more and more interested, and 
Dr. Medjora, observing the good impression which his 
protege was making, was content to remain silent and 

" Your last statement indicates that you have formu 
lated some mode of reasoning, upon which to base your 
convictions," said the Judge. " Will you take us a little 
further into your doctrine? " 

" I am afraid that my ideas are rather crude, sir. I 
have had access to few standard works, and have been 
compelled to think out things for myself. But if I do 
not bore you, I shall be only too willing to continue. 
Indeed, it is a great treat to me, to speak with some one 
who may contradict me where I fall into error." 

"You are a modest young man, Mr. Grath. Please 
continue. You were saying that one s knowledge might 
assure him a life hereafter." 

" So I believe. Of course it is almost impossible, if 
not quite so, to prove anything in connection with the 


great future. But it is the prerogative of man to rea 
son upon all subjects, and it is eminently fitting that he 
should study that one which most nearly affects himself. 
In the absence of absolute proof, I claim that one may 
adopt any theory that appeals to him as reasonable and 
probable. Now in relation to knowledge. I say it is 
more important to amass knowledge than to hoard up 
wealth. Money belongs to the material plane, and, hav 
ing no relation to any other, it is as perishable, as far as it 
affects one individual, as is the human body. Money 
buys luxuries and comforts for the body only. It can 
add nothing to intellectual attainment. You may say 
that with it one may purchase books with which to im 
prove the mind. That is true, but does not invalidate 
my argument, for it is not the book which is pabulum to 
our intellect, but only the thoughts which have been 
recorded upon its pages. Money procures us the 
possession of the book, whereas if we borrow it, and 
return it again, in the interval we may receive all the 
mental benefit which it can bestow upon the owner. 
Knowledge, on the other hand, is immaterial. It is an 
attribute of what has been called the soul. It is potent 
while being invisible, and though invisible it has a 
market value as well as things material. All the wealth 
of the world may not suffice to make one man wise, 
while all the wisdom in the world would surely make its 
possessor wealthy, but for the fact that he would proba 
bly be too wise to wish for riches. If, then, knowledge is 
such a potent factor in the world s affairs, can it be 


that it ceases to exist when a man dies ? It is reason 
able to suppose that it does not : then what becomes of 
it ? The man cannot leave it to his heirs, as he does 
his chattels. Therefore it must continue where it has 
always been, and that is within the mind, which must 
have a continuance of existence to retain its knowledge." 

" Ah ! Very good ! But Dr. Medjora has just an 
nounced that he is preparing to bequeath his knowledge 
to you, who are to be his heir in that respect. How do 
you make that conform to your curious theory ? 

" You misapprehend the true condition. Dr. Medjora 
does not purpose giving me his knowledge, as one gives 
money, thereby lessening his own store. He merely in 
tends to cultivate my own intellect, training it in grooves 
parallel with those which he himself has followed. He 
might live until I know as much as he does now, yet he 
would be no less wise than he is. Rather, he would 
have grown wiser himself in having acquired the ex 
perience of teaching another." 

" You should study law instead of medicine. If you 
grow tired of the Doctor, you must come to me. Only, 
let me ask you one more question. If, according to your 
tenets, the wisest man is most certain of a future life, 
what of the most idiotic ? " 

" He is most apt to meet with annihilation. Buthe 
would cease to exist, only as to his individuality. I have 
not thought very deeply in that direction, but as my 
mind cannot conceive of the actual annihilation of any 
thing that is existent, I have surmised that perhaps the 


minds of many idiots may become coalescent, so that 
a new individual might be created, who would possess 
sufficient intellectuality at birth in the world, to realize 
the importance to himself of mental cultivation." 

"Ha! Ha! Doctor," said the Judge, laughing. "If 
two idiots may eventually be rolled into one, there is 
some hope for you and me. We may be joined together 
in the next world, and what a fellow we would be on our 
next trip to this old-fashioned planet ! But seriously, 
Mr. Grath, your theories interest me. We will talk to 
gether again. You must come to our house some day. 
But I have not time for theology now. My daughter 
has a little bet on the first race, and if I delay longer she 
will miss seeing it. She has been making impatient 
signs to me for some time." 

" Father ! " exclaimed Agnes, deprecatingly ; then turn 
ing to Leon, she continued : " Mr. Grath, you must not 
lay too much stress upon what my father says, when he 
is not upon the bench. When acting in his official capac 
ity, his word is law, but at other times 

" My daughter s is," interrupted the Judge, with a good- 
humored laugh. 

" At other times," Agnes resumed, " he often prevari 
cates. He is constantly endeavoring to impress people 
with the idea that I am only a child, and not capable of 
comprehending serious conversation. Let me assure you 
that I have been highly entertained and edified by what 
you have been saying." 

Leon bowed gravely without a suspicion of a blush, or 


embarrassment of manner, at thus receiving a compli 
ment for the first time in his life from the lips of beauty. 
He was very self-reliant, though never obtrusively so. 
What he said was very simple. 

" That you have been pleased to listen to me with 
attention, was sufficient proof to me, Miss Dudley, that at 
least I was not trying your patience too far by my speech." 

" Come, Agnes, or we will miss that race, and whether 
you care or not, I confess that I do." 

Then adieux were made and Dr. Medjora accompanied 
his guests to the door, where he paused a moment to say 
a word to the Judge, Leon having remained behind. 

" What do you think of the lad ? " he asked. 

" A promising pupil, Medjora," replied the Judge. 
" He has brains, an uncommon endowment in these 
days. He is worth training. Do your best with him." 

" I will ! " answered the Doctor. 

As the carriage bore the Judge and Agnes towards the 
race-track, the former asked his daughter this question, i 

" Agnes, what do you think of Mr. Grath ?" 

" He is bright," she replied, " but what he was saying 
impressed me from the fact that he seems to have con 
vinced himself of the correctness of his theories, rather 
than from any argument which he offered, which would 
satisfy another s mind. Nearly all of it I have read." 

When the Doctor returned to the room, he found Leon 
looking at a book on the table, whereas he had expected 
to see him at the window watching the departing girl. 
Therefore he asked : 


" What do you think of Miss Dudley ? " 

" Miss Dudley ? " repeated Leon. " Oh ! She has a 
face which one would not easily forget. I met her once, 
some years ago, but only for a few minutes. Long 
enough only to answer some question which she asked, 
yet also long enough to impress her face upon my recol 
lection indelibly. But I suppose you mean the girl 
herself, and all I can say is, that I should never form 
an opinion after an interview so brief. I would add, 
however, that she seems to be intellectually superior to 
her sex." 

He spoke entirely dispassionately, and Dr. Medjora 
said no more. 

Madame Medjora had quietly left the room while Leon 
was expounding his views to the Judge. 

During the afternoon, the Doctor took Leon down 
into the city, to show him about, and more especially to 
have proper clothing prepared for him. They returned 
to the Villa Medjora, as Madame called their home, just 
in time to hear the voice of the Doctor s wife raised in 
anger. She was enraged because the butler had opened 
a box and released Lossy. 

" It is bad enough to have the beggar boy thrust upon 
me," she had exclaimed. " I will not tolerate the nui 
sance of having a pest like this about the premises. Put 
him back in his box, and take him away from here 
instantly. Do you hear ? " 

The butler heard, but did not heed. He had learned 
that the Doctor was the master, and having received ex- 


plicit orders in relation to the dog, he proceeded to put 
them into effect, despite the protests of Madame. Thus 
Lossy was bathed, combed, dried, and fed, Madame 
watching the performance from a window, and continu 
ing her violent tirade, becoming more and more angered 
as she realized the impotency of her wrath. 

As the Doctor and his protege entered the grounds, 
Lossy bounded along the walk, barking delightedly at 
the sight of his master. For one moment the lad s cup 
of happiness was full, but in the next a dread entered his 
heart. He distinctly heard Madame say : 

" I 11 poison that beast ! " With which she closed the 
window and disappeared. Leon looked appealingly at 
the Doctor, whose brows were knit together in an 
ominous frown. 

" Do not be alarmed, Leon," said he," I will guarantee 
that Madame will not carry her threat into execution. 
She is a woman of hasty temper, and often speaks with 
out reflection. She is annoyed because the dog has 
come, but when she learns that he will not disturb her in 
any way, her resentment will pass. Lossy is safe. Let 
your mind rest easy on that point." He placed his hand 
upon Leon s shoulder and looked at him with reassuring 
kindliness. Leon felt slightly relieved, but when he re 
tired to rest that night, in the room allotted to him, he 
secretly carried Lossy with him, and the dog slept at the 
foot of his master s bed. 



DURING the six months which followed, Leon advanced 
rapidly in his studies. His regular routine was to spend 
a specified number of hours each day in the magnifi 
cently appointed chemical laboratory ; to accompany the 
Doctor upon many of his professional rounds, especially 
to hospital cases, and to the tenements of the poor ; and 
in the evening it became usually their custom to spend 
an hour together, during which the Doctor gave his pupil 
oral instruction, rehearsed him in what he had already 
learned, and set new tasks for him to master. This hour 
was generally the last before bedtime. After dinner the 
Doctor s habit was to yield himself to the demands of 
his wife, who delighted to carry him off to social func 
tions, or to the theatres. Leon very rarely accompanied 
them. He remained at home to study, and was ready 
to meet his teacher at the appointed hour, which 
was seldom later than eleven o clock. Dr. Med- 
jora was a great disciplinarian, and had Leon been 
differently constituted, he might have rebelled at the 
amount of work which he was expected to accomplish 
each day. But he never uttered complaint of any sort. 



Indeed, he seemed to have an unlimited capacity for 
study, so that his assiduity, coupled with a marvellous 
memory, rendered his progress very rapid. Nevertheless 
the Doctor was not satisfied. He was impatient to see 
the day arrive when Leon should reach the same pin 
nacle of knowledge which he himself had attained, in 
order that thereafter they might traverse the road to fame 
hand in hand, leaning upon and assisting one another. 

At last the day, the hour, arrived, beyond which the 
Doctor had decided to pursue their sluggish method no 
further. He knew how to teach Leon in one year, all 
that he had learned by weary plodding throughout the 
greater part of his life. But it was essential to his 
scheme, that he should be able to hypnotize Leon, 
and in this he had made one trial which had failed. 
During the months which had passed since then, he had 
matured a plan which he was sure would prove success 
ful, and now he entered his pupil s presence prepared to 
carry it into execution. 

Leon was reading, but instantly closed his book and 
laid it aside, greeting the Doctor, not as the foolish 
schoolboy afraid of his master, but as the ardent 
student eager for learning. The Doctor seated himself 
in a comfortable Turkish chair, and began as follows : 

" Leon, are you tired ? Could you prolong the hour 
a little to-night if I should not otherwise find time for 
what I wish to say ? " 

" I will gladly listen to you till morning, Doctor," 
replied Leon. 


" You have been taking every night the draught which 
I prescribed ? " 

" Yes, sir. There on the table is the potion for to 

i " You do not know what it is, Leon, and the time has 
not yet arrived when I can explain its decoction to you. 
Suffice it for me to tell you, that this colorless liquid is 
practically the Elixir of Life, for which the ancients 
sought in vain." 

The Elixir of Life ? Why, that is a myth ! " Leon 
almost smiled. But he did not quite, because the 
expression on the Doctor s face was too serious. 

" I said that it is practically the magic fluid. It has 
the property of supplying the body in twenty-four hours, 
with the vital energy which it would otherwise need 
several days of rest and recreation to recover. That is 
why I prescribe it to you, while you are engaged so 
arduously upon your studies. Do you not find that you 
are less easily fatigued ? " 

" I do, indeed. It is certainly a wonderful invigor- 
ator ! " 

" Leon," said the Doctor, after a slight pause, " I 
believe that I have your confidence and trust ? " 

" Absolutely, Doctor ! " 

" Would you take any drug that I might administer, 
without knowing its effects, and without questioning my 
motive, so long as I assure you that you would be bene 

" I would ! " 


" I will put you to the test, but, in exchange for your 
trust, I will tell you in part what I mean to do." He 
took a small phial from his pocket, a tiny tube contain 
ing less than five minims of a clear colorless liquid. " In 
this little bottle, Leon, there is a medicine of frightful 
potency. One drop would suffice to destroy a human 
life. But mixed with your nightly draught, a new 
chemical compound is produced, which, though harmless, 
will so energize the brain-cells that the powers of recol 
lection will be more than trebled. By this means, your 
progress can be very much enhanced, for instead of 
receiving what I offer to you each night, and assimilating 
a part of it, you will find in the future that all my words 
will be indelibly imprinted upon your mind." 

" I would have taken the drug without your explana 
tion, Doctor, but now I am eager for the experiment." 

" This is no experiment, Leon. Beware of operating 
upon a human being when your knowledge is so meagre 
that you must resort to experimental tests." There was 
a touch of deep feeling in the Doctor s tones, as though 
he might at some time have made the error against 
which he admonished the lad. Leon, however, did not 
observe anything out of the common. He was intent 
upon what the Doctor was about to do. Dr. Medjora 
carefully removed the tiny glass stopper from the phial, 
and, holding it in his left hand, took up the glass from 
the table with his right. Pausing a moment he 
exclaimed : 

" Watch ! " 


Then with a quick movement he poured the contents 
of the phial into the liquid in the glass. Instantly there 
was a commotion. There was a sound of water boil 
ing, and a sort of steam arose. 

The poisonous properties are thrown off, you see, in 
the form of gas," said the Doctor. 

The liquid in the glass, from having been colorless, 
was now converted into a bright green, but as Leon 
watched he was astonished to see this emerald hue 
gradually fade, until within a minute it had disappeared, 
and the fluid was as colorless as before. 

" Observe, Leon," said the Doctor, " how easily I 
could have administered the added drug without your 
knowledge, for just as you see no difference that the eye 
can detect, so also will your potion be as tasteless as 
before. Will you drink it ? " 

Leon took the glass and drank, without hesitation. 

" I thank you for this evidence of your faith in me," 
said the Doctor, and pausing awhile, presently spoke 
again : " Leon, you were probably surprised when, as a 
part of your task for to-night, I told you to read a por 
tion of the book of Genesis, in the Bible. I had a 
special purpose in view, which I will now explain. I 
have a sort of story to tell, which at first may seem en 
tirely unconnected with our work, but bear with me, be 
closely attentive, and you will soon discover that all I 
shall say has an important bearing. The beginning of 
the Bible of the Jews should make all who study it pause 
to consider a singular circumstance. The creation of 


the world, and all that occurred up to the time of the 
Flood, is narrated in seven short chapters, the end of the 
seventh recording the Flood itself, and the almost total 
annihilation of all the creatures of the earth. But from 
the Flood up to the nativity of the Christ, we find the his 
torian well stocked with facts, and hundreds of pages are 
filled with his narration." 

" Was it not because Moses, or the author of the earlier 
books, had more data concerning the events following 
the Flood, than those which preceded it ? Indeed, it is 
probable that the Flood itself obliterated the records of 
previous times." 

" A good argument, my boy, if we consider the Bible 
as a mere history. But does not the religious world 
claim that it is an inspired work ? If the Creator actu 
ally revealed the past to Moses, then there was no reason 
why he could not have been as explicit about the occur 
rences before the Flood, as after ? But your explanation 
is the true one. The author of Genesis did not have 
access to actual records, but could merely generalize 
from the legends then in existence. There are two 
events in the history of the world which stand out pre 
eminently important. First, the Flood, which destroyed 
mankind, and second, the discovery of America, which 
restored a lost continent. That these two events have a 
very close relationship is suspected only by a few scien 

" How are they connected ? A great period of time 
separates them. " 


" True. But let me tell you the real story of the Flood, 
and you will comprehend my meaning. I shall not stop 
to give you arguments to substantiate what I say, be 
cause that would take too long, and would lead us away 
from what I am aiming at. However, while my own 
knowledge of the facts was received from other sources, 
when you have the time you will find the whole subject 
ably expounded in a work in my library, entitled The 
Lost Histories of America, by Blacket. 

" At the time of the Flood, or just prior thereto, the 
highest civilization in the world existed in Mexico. 
There, a vast empire flourished. The arts and sciences 
had received much attention, and beautiful cities, popu 
lated by cultured people, abounded everywhere in the 
land. Navigation was well understood, and colonies 
from Mexico had made new homes for themselves on 
the western coast of Africa, in Ireland and England, 
along the Mediterranean, and, in the opposite direction, 
they had even penetrated Asia, crossing the vast. Pacific. 
Then came that great convulsion which all peoples, in all 
climes, remember to-day through legends of waters ris 
ing and submerging the whole surface of the earth. It 
is probable that a great tidal wave narrowed the conti 
nents of North and South America along both shores, 
eating away the central portion more extensively, the 
complete division of the two being prevented only by 
the mountainous character of the region. In South 
America-, we find the southermost part narrowed to a 


" Do you mean that South America was once wider?" 

" The proof of my assertion lies in the ruins and monu 
ments still to be found buried beneath the waves, hundreds 
of miles from the shore, though some were undoubtedly 
on islands which also sunk at this time. What would be 
the first effects of a cataclysm of such magnitude ? 
The ships at sea, if they escaped at all, would sail for 
home. Arriving where the original shores had been, 
and finding nothing for even fifty miles beyond, the sur 
vivors would imagine that the whole country had been 
lost, and so would turn towards those other shores 
which their race had colonized. They would carry 
with them the story of the Flood which had submerged 
the whole of the western continent, and from this ac 
count we would finally inherit our version of the awful 
event. Having accepted the theory of the destruction 
of their home-land, and being thus compelled to adopt 
permanently their new abiding-places, would not these 
colonists immediately set about making their new home 
to resemble as much as possible the old ? Undoubtedly! 
Hence we find them building the tower of Babel, in 
which project they were foiled by the confusion of 
tongues. Would it surprise you, however, to know that 
a similar legend is found in Central America?" 

" I am ignorant, Doctor, of all that pertains to the 
subject. Therefore, of course, I should be surprised, 
but I am deeply interested." 

" The legend is still current among the natives dwell 
ing near the pyramid of Cholula, to which it alludes, but 


I will give you a version of it which is recorded in a 
manuscript of Pedro de Los Rios. It is as follows : 

" Before the great inundation, which took place four 
thousand eight hundred years after the creation of the 
World, the country of Anahuac was inhabited by giants. 
All those who did not perish were transformed into 
fishes, save seven, who fled into caverns. When the 
waters subsided, one of these giants, Xelhua, surnamed 
the Architect, went to Chollolan, where, as a memorial 
of the mountain Tlaloc, which had served for an asylum 
to himself and his six brethren, he built an artificial hill 
in form of a pyramid. . . . The gods beheld with 
wrath this edifice, the top of which was to reach the 
clouds. Irritated at the daring attempt of Xelhua, they 
hurled fire [lightning?] on the pyramid. Numbers of 
the workmen perished ; the work was discontinued." 

" Indeed, Doctor, the two traditions are similar. How 
is that to be understood, since certainly from the time of 
the Flood, until the discovery by Columbus, there was 
no communication between the Old and the so-called 
New World ? " 

" Wherever, in two places devoid of communication, 
similar occurences are recorded, .they have a common 
inspiration. So it was in this instance. The colonists 
built the temple to their God whom they had worshipped 
in Mexico. The Mexicans did likewise, moved to the 
action by the destruction of all their places of worship, 
because of the great inroad made by the sea, and the 
consequent narrowing of the land. In both instances, 
we can understand the desire to attain a great height, in 
order to have a place of safety if a second flood were to 


supervene. Now let me call your attention to a little 
coincidence. You observe in the Mexican story that 
seven giants were saved. This number seven has al 
ways been considered a numeral of great significance, 
by all the religionists of olden times. Thus the author 
of the book of Genesis so divided the beginning of his 
narration, that the creation of the world and all that oc 
curred up to the Flood, is told in seven chapters. De 
pending upon legends for his facts about that period, 
which the Mexican story says covered forty-eight hun 
dred years, he condenses it all into the mystic number of 
seven chapters." 

" From all this, then, I am to believe that the story of 
the Flood is true in the main ? I had always supposed 
that it was either a myth, or an exaggeration of some 
local inundation ? " 

" Undoubtedly the great Flood occurred. But now I 
come to the object which I had in telling you all this. 
The great pyramids in Mexico, or tcocali as they were 
called, were temples, places of worship consecrated to 
the god Tesculipoca. Would it surprise you to hear 
that this Mexican deity is no other than ^sculapitis, 
commonly called the father of medicine ?" 

" It would, indeed ! " 

" Yet it is true. Like many other of the mythological 
gods of Europe, he really existed in Mexico. The 
quickest manner of recognizing him, is by his name. Let 
us place the Mexican and the European, one under the 
other : 



" Now, if we remember that the presence of a diphthong 
in the transformation of names implies a lost consonant, 
we see that the names are virtually the same, the OCA 
being the Mexican suffix, and the I U S the Greek. To 
go a little further in our identification, mythology in 
forms us that ^Esculapius is the son of Apollo. We are 
also told that the Tower of Babel was consecrated to 
Bel, but that the upper story was devoted to ^Esculapius. 
This is significant, from the fact that Apollo and Bel 
are forms of the same deity. Thus we find that imme 
diately after the Flood, those who escape on one side of 
the great Ocean proceed to build a temple to /Escu- 
lapius, while on the other, in the home country, they 
build a new pyramid, a teocali, in which to worship 
Tesculipoca. Are you satisfied that yEsculapius was 
originally an inhabitant of this continent?" 

" It certainly seems so." 

" Seems so ? It is so ! And in that fact, Leon, abides 
a secret which has been of vast importance to me, and 
shall be to you. Few men know what I am, or whence 
I came. Let me tell you that the high priests of these 
teocali were all lineally descended from the great physi 
cian, and to this day there are many who still blow upon 
the embers of the old faith, down in the forest fastnesses 
of Mexico and Central America, secure from the pry 
ing eyes of white men. I inherited the right of priest 
hood at my birth." 


" You ? You a Mexican priest?" Leon started up amazed. 

" By inheritance, yes ! But early in life I made a dis 
covery of vast importance. By deciphering some old 
hieroglyphical writings, I learned that, somewhere in the 
North Country, the first teocali had been built. That in 
the topmost chamber of it, as in the tower of Babel, the 
god himself had dwelt. In the dome which surmounted 
that temple, he had sculptured hieroglyphics, which re 
corded all the vast knowledge which he possessed. I 
even found some fragmentary copies of these sculptures, 
and I learned enough to make me determined to seek, 
and to find that lost temple." 

" You succeeded ! " ejaculated Leon, much excited. 

" I always succeed," said the Doctor, with significant 
emphasis. " It has been the rule of my life, from which 
I have never deviated. Yes ! I succeeded ! I discov 
ered the dome of the temple, buried beneath the earth. 
For years I have spent many hours of otherwise unoccu 
pied time, deciphering the sculptured records of the lost 
past. Lost to the world, but found by me, Emanuel 
Medjora, whom men call Wizard ! " There was a flash of 
triumph in the Doctor s eye, as he uttered these words. 
Leon looked at him, but did not speak. 

" Yes ! The knowledge garnered by ^Esculapius has 
been inherited by me. This it is, that I mean to be 
queath to you. Is it not better than money ? " 

" You mean that you will take me into that chamber, 
which you have found ? " Leon was incredulous, yet 
hopeful of receiving an affirmative reply. 


" That is what I will do, but not to-night. The hour 
is now late. You must retire to rest. To-morrow night, 
I will give you proof of what I have told you. Now, 
good-night, and -remember that I have intrusted you with 
a secret more valuable than all the world. Beware of 
betraying me." 

" Doctor ! " expostulated Leon, much hurt. 

" You need not speak so, Leon. If I doubted you, I 
would never have confided in you. Once more, good 

" Good-night ! " And Leon turned to leave the room. 

" Pleasant dreams," said the Doctor, and Leon had no 
suspicion that there was a studied purpose in the utter 

After the lad s departure, the Doctor sat alone, mus 
ing upon the situation. He did not go to rest, because 
his work was not yet complete. He recalled the night 
on the Fall River boat, when he had endeavored to 
hypnotize Leon, and had failed. To-night he would 
try again. For months he had been arranging all the 
preliminaries, and now he was confident of success. The 
object which he had in view was this : He desired to 
teach Leon more rapidly than the lad could learn in his 
normal condition. This he hoped to accomplish with 
the aid of hypnosis. By gaining control of Leon, 
in this manner he expected to utilize the marvels of 
suggestion. He would instruct him, and then charge 
him to remember all that he had been taught, and the 
result would be that the mind would obey the in- 


junction, and thus acquire knowledge more rapidly than 
by ordinary study. 

But, for the present, he believed it to be of vital im 
portance that Leon should not suspect what he was 
doing. To this end he had arranged his mode of pro 
cedure with the caution of a master of psychology. In 
the first place, he had prepared Leon s mind for the 
rapid progress of the future, by telling him that the 
drug administered would increase his mental powers. 
This was false. What he had added to the usual tonic 
draught, was not a poison, as he had claimed, but a 
powerful narcotic. In order, however, to make an im 
pression upon his mind, he had relied upon the chemical 
reaction, and the changing color, which has been de 

Then he had related to him enough of the history of 
yEsculapius and of the secret chamber, so that if on the 
morrow Leon should remember the visit to the dome, 
where he meant to carry him presently, he would easily ac 
count for it to himself, as a dream. To make sure of this, I 
he had suggested dreaming to him as they parted. 

So, as he reviewed his arrangement, the Doctor was 
satisfied that he had taken all necessary precautions, and 
with patience he awaited the time which he had set for 
further action. 

The minutes crept by, until at last a little door in the 
front of the great clock opened, and a silver image of 
Vulcan raised a tiny hammer and brought it down upon 
the anvil before him with force enough to draw forth a 


sharp ring from the metal. Then the door closed again. 
It was one o clock. 

The Doctor arose and went to a closet, whence he 
brought forth a pair of soft slippers which he put on 
instead of his shoes. Leaving the room, he climbed the 
stairway as noiselessly as a cat, not a board creaking as 
he slowly lifted himself from one step to the next. He 
had no fear of arousing Leon, but he did not wish to 
attract the attention of any other one in the house. 
Soon he was in Leon s room, standing beside the bed. 
Leon lay sleeping as calmly as a babe. Dr. Medjora 
knelt beside him, and listened to his heart beating. He 
felt his pulse, and seemed satisfied. From a couch he 
took a heavy slumber robe, and without hesitation lifted 
Leon from the bed and wrapped him in the robe. 
Next he raised him in his arms and carried him from 
the room. At the end of the hall he paused long enough 
to open the door which led to his laboratory, which 
occupied a wing of the building, and passing through- 
he closed the door behind him, and laid his burden on 
the floor. 

Next he lighted a small lamp which shed but a dim 
light, and stooping, felt along the floor until he found a 
secret spring which he released, and then slid aside 
a trap-door, exposing to view a flight of stairs. Down 
these he descended, the ruby-colored shade of his lamp 
throwing red rays upward as he disappeared. In a few 
moments he returned without the lamp, which, placed 
somewhere below, still lighted the opening with a dull 


glow. The Doctor took Leon in his arms, and carried 
him down the steps, until he reached the same door 
through which he had taken young Barnes on the mem 
orable night of the fire. In rebuilding upon the property, 
the Doctor had purposely placed his laboratory over his 
secret underground chamber. 

Having entered the remains of the temple of ^Escula- 
pius, he laid Leon upon a comfortable mass of rugs which 
covered the central stone. Taking from his pocket 
a small phial, he opened Leon s mouth and poured the 
contents into it, holding his nose until, in an effort to 
breathe, the drug was swallowed. This accomplished 
the Doctor retired behind a screen, which had been 
formed by him in such accurate reproduction of the 
walls of the chamber, that one would not readily sus 
pect that it was not a part of the original structure. 

"Within ten minutes he should awaken," mused the 
Doctor. " But when he does, and his eyes rest upon 
the scene about him, he will surely think that he is 
dreaming of the temple of /Ksculapius. Then, while 
his brain is heavy with drugs, and his mind mystified, he 
will yield readily to hypnotic influences." 

The ten minutes had barely elapsed, when the sleeper 
moved. A moment later, Leon opened his eyes, and 
as the dim light from the little lamp enabled him to see 
the dome above him, he lay still, regarding it with some 
surprise. A few moments more, and he rubbed his eyes 
with the knuckle of his forefinger, and the Doctor knew 
that he was wondering whether he were awake or dream- 


ing. Not fully satisfied, Leon sat up, and gazed about 
him. He was becoming more thoroughly awake, and 
very soon he would know that he was not in dream-land. 
But the Doctor no longer delayed his plan of action. 
Ere Leon could recover from the surprise of his first 
awakening, and as he gazed directly in front of him, 
Dr. Medjora touched an electric button with his foot, 
and instantly a blaze of light appeared upon the wall. 
A hundred tiny incandescent lamps, arranged in the 
form of radiating spokes from a wheel, placed before a 
brightly burnished silver reflector, with thousands of 
facets upon its concaved surface, shed a light as daz 
zling as a sun. Leon closed his eyes to protect them 
from the glare, but when he opened them again another 
surprise awaited him. By touching another button, the 
Doctor had started a motor, which, with a dull humming 
sound, set the wheel of lights in motion, the reflector 
revolving rapidly in one direction while the fixture which 
contained the lamps turned swiftly the opposite way. 
The scintillating rays were so dazzling, that it was impos 
sible for Leon to gaze upon it more than an instant. He 
turned his back upon it, bewildered, but immediately 
before his eyes there appeared on the wall confronting 
him another similar wheel of light, which began to re 
volve also. Again he turned his eyes away, and again, 
and again, and again ; but wherever he looked, the 
rapidly moving electric suns burst forth, until a dozen of 
them surrounded him. 

He stood a moment with his gaze upon the floor, try- 


ing to recover control of himself, for his astonishment 
was such that he felt as though he were losing his mind. 
But all in vain. As much as he dreaded those fiery 
suns, as well as he knew instinctively that to look upon 
them was to be lost, he could not resist the temptation. 
Slowly, as with an effort, he raised his eyes and stared 
at the scintillating suns before him. For a brief time 
his eyes turned from one to another, but finally they 
became fixed and he gazed only at one. In a moment 
all the others were turned out, and that one revolved 
faster and faster. Two or three times it seemed as 
though he tried to withdraw his gaze, but eventually all 
resistance to the influence of the dazzling light ceased. 
Leon sank back into a partly sitting posture upon the 
rugs, and in a few moments the eyelids closed heavily, 
the head sank upon the breast, the body quivered, and 
the limbs hung limp. Leon was passing into a hypnotic 
sleep, caused by the ingenious mechanical device 
coupled with the skilfully prepared surprise which the 
mind had received. 

The Doctor pressed a button, and the last wheel was 
extinguished and stood motionless. Once more the 
only light was from the little lamp, which now, by con 
trast with the recent glare, seemed like a glowworm. 
Dr. Medjora came fortli and placed himself in front of 
Leon. With the palms of his hands on the lad s temples, 
he rubbed the eyeballs through the closed lids, with his 
thumbs. After a short time he spoke. 

" Leon ! Leon ! Are you asleep ? " 



There was no reply. 

" Leon ! You are asleep, but you can speak ! " 

An indistinct murmur escaped from the sleeper. 

" Leon ! You are asleep ! But you are also awake ! 
Open your eyes, but do not awaken entirely ! Open 
your eyes ! " 

In response to the command, authoritatively given, 
Leon s eyes opened slowly, and he stared before him, 
as though seeing nothing. 

" Look ! You can see me if you try ! You can recog 
nize me ! You can speak ! Speak to me ! " 

The sleeper gazed at the Doctor a while, but said 

" Do you not hear me ? I tell you that you can speak ! 
You must speak ! Speak ! I command you ! Speak ! " 

" Doc-tor Med-jo-ra ! " was the reply uttered in sepa 
rate syllables, with a pause between each, and in hollow 

" Good ! You see you can speak if you will. You 
will find it easy enough directly. Look about you now, 
and tell me where you are." 

" I think I am in the temple ! " 

" You are correct. You are in the temple of ^ 
pius. Do you understand?" 

" The temple of ^Esculapius ! I understand ! " 

" Do you know how you came here ? " 

" No ! " 

" Do you wish to know ? " 

" No ! " 


" I brought you here. Do you understand that? " 

" Yes ! " 

" Are you glad or sorry ? " 

" Glad ! " 

" You are asleep ! You know that, do you not ? " 

" I am asleep ! " 

" Do you wish to awaken ? " 

" I did at first ! Now I do not ! " 

" Then you are happy in your present state ? " 

" I am with you ! I am happy ! I am with you ! " 

" Then you trust me ? " 

" I do, now ! " 

" You do now ! Did you ever mistrust me ? " 

"Yes! Once!" 

" When was that ? " 

" On the boat ! You tried to make me sleep ! " 

" But I have made you sleep now. Do you still 
trust me ? " 

" Yes ! " 

" Why did you mistrust me before then ? " 

" I did not know how pleasant it is to sleep !" 

Then you are happy, when you are asleep like this ? " 

" I am with you ! I am happy ! I am with you ! " 

" Very well ! In the future if I try to make you sleep, 
you will not resist me ? " 


" Say, I will not resist you ! " 

" I will not resist you ! " 

" You will sleep, whenever I wish you to do so ? " 


" I will sleep, when you wish me to do so ! " 

" Now, if I ask you a few questions, will you answer 
me truthfully ? " 


" I wish you then to tell me whether you are in love 
with Agnes Dudley ? " 

"What is love ? " 

" Do you not know ? " 

" Only what I have read ! " 

" You have not felt what it is to love a woman ? " 

" I have not ! " 

" Then you do not love Agnes Dudley ?" 

" I suppose not ! " 

" Have you thought of it at all, as possible ? " 

" I have not ! " 

" Not even for an instant ? " 

" Not even for an instant ! " 

" That is very strange. She is a magnificent girl. 
Beautiful, intellectual, and cultured. You have observed 
that ? " 

" Yes ! I have observed all that ! " 

" Nevertheless, you have not thought of loving her ? " 

" Nevertheless, I have not thought of loving her ! " 

" Are you tired now of sleeping ? " 

" I would like to sleep the other sleep ! I cannot ex 
plain ! Yes, I am tired ! " 

" You need not explain. I understand. This is your 
first experience, and must not be continued longer. But 
you must promise me something." 


" I will promise ! " 

" You remember all that I told you to-night before 
you went to sleep ? " 

" I do ! " 

" You must never forget any of it. You must remem 
ber it all. Not the words, but the substance. You will 
remember ? " 

" I will remember ! " 

" Now I will take you back to your bed. When you 
have been there ten minutes, you will awaken ! " 

" I will awaken ! " 

"You will remember this place, but only as though 
you had seen it in a dream ! " 

" I will remember the dream ! " 

" Then you will immediate!^ fall into a natural sleep! " 

" I will fall into a natura! sle^p ! " 

" In the morning you will either remember nothing, or 
if anything only that you have had a dream ! " 

" Only a dream ! " 

" Now sleep ! Sleep deeply ! " 

The Doctor pressed Leon s eyes with his thumbs, and 
when he released them the lids remained closed. 

"You cannot open your eyes ! " 

" No ! I cannot open my eyes ! " 

" Now you cannot speak ! " 

There was no reply. Dr. Medjora wrapped the 
sleeper in the robe and carried him upstairs, and back to 
his own room again. He placed him in his bed, and 
covered him carefully, as a mother would her babe. 


Stooping over him he placed his lips close to Leon s ear 
and said : 

" Can you hear me ? If so, raise your arm," a feeble 
1 elevation of the arm was made in response. " Good, 
you hear ! Remember ! Awaken in ten minutes ! 
Awaken from a dream ! Then sleep again ! " 

The sleeper stirred slightly, and breathed a long sigh. 
Dr. Medjora leaned over him, and imprinted a kiss upon 
his forehead. Then he left the apartment, closing the 
door cautiously behind him, and sought his own room. 



ON the following morning, when Leon entered the 
laboratory, he found Dr. Medjora busiiy engaged upon a 
chemical analysis. He, therefore, without interrupting 
him, went to his own table, and took up his morning s 
task. Half an hour passed in silence, and then the 
Doctor spoke : 

" Good-morning, Leon," said he. " I hope that the 
late hour at which you retired last night did not interfere 
with your rest ? " 

" On the contrary, Doctor," said Leon, " I slept very 
soundly ; so soundly that I did not awaken as early as 
usual this morning. Yet I am puzzled by one thing." 

" And that is ?" 

" A dream. I have a distinct recollection of a dream, 
and yet I am sure that I slept soundly until the very 
moment of my awakening. I have always thought that 
dreams come only when one dozes, or is half awake. 
Do you think that one might sleep soundly, and never 
theless dream ? " 

" It is a question much disputed. If you have done 
so, however, you have proven the possibility. Tell me 
your dream." 



Thus adroitly did the Doctor avoid committing him 
self by a statement which would have lead to an argu 
ment, Leon s controversial instinct being a prominent 

" The dream was singular," replied Leon, " not so 
much because of what I dreamed, but rather because of 
the impression made upon my mind. As a rule, what 
one dreams is recalled as a dimly denned vision, but in 
this instance, I can see the temple of /Esculapius as 
clearly as though I had really visited the place." 

"Then in your dream you imagined that you saw 
that wonderful place ? " 

" Yes. There is nothing odd about that, because you 
told me that you would take me into the chamber to 
night. I went to sleep with the desire to see the temple 
prominently present in my thoughts, and consequently, 
in my dream, that wish was gratified. But now I am 
anxious to verify my vision, to note how much resem 
blance there will be between the real and the imaginary. 
It would be very curious if I should be able to recognize 
the place ! " 

Leon looked away off into space, as one gazes at noth 
ing when deeply absorbed in the contemplation of some 
perplexing problem. The Doctor at once recognized 
the danger that presented. Leon s memory was more 
vivid than he had intended it to be. If taken into the 
crypt, in his present state of active inquiry into the 
phenomenon which his mind was considering, and if lie 
really should become convinced that what he thought a 


dream was the exact counterpart of the real, it would 
not be improbable that his suspicion of the truth might 
be aroused. It was therefore essential that his mind 
should be led into a safer channel. The Doctor under 
took to do this. 

" Leon," said he, " you are always interested in psycho 
logical phenomena, and therefore I will discuss this with 
you. The action of the mind is always an attractive 
study ; attractive mainly because man cannot thoroughly 
unravel the mysteries surrounding the working of a hu 
man mind. Ordinarily, what one cannot comprehend 
and explain, is written down as a miracle. There are no 
miracles, except as the words may be used to describe 
that which mystifies. But the mystification passes, as 
soon as the explanation is arrived at. Now it is mani 
festly impossible that you should dream of a place 
which you have never seen, and obtain an accurate 
mental image of it." 

" I do not say that I have done so. I only wonder 
how much resemblance will exist between the dream and 
the chamber itself." 

" True ! But I should not be at all surprised, when I 
take you there, if you claim that it is the counterpart of 
your dream." 

"Why do you think that, Doctor, when you have just 
said truly, that such a fact would be impossible ? " 

" It would be impossible that such a thing should be a 
fact, but it is not at all impossible that you should think 
it to be a fact. Let me explain myself more clearly. 


As I said before, one cannot produce in the mind an 
absolutely accurate image of a thing which he has never 
seen. But mental images may be created, not alone 
| through the sense of sight, but also through the sense of 
hearing. Last night I told you the story of ^Esculapius. 
I described to you the tcocali which had been reared in 
his memory. I told you that at the very top a dome-like 
chamber was specially dedicated to /Ksculapius. I also 
explained to you that in the dome which I have discov 
ered the walls are covered with hieroglyphical sculptur 
ing. With such a description of the place, meagre as it 
is, you could readily construct a mental image, which 
would be sufficiently like the original for you to believe 
it identical. A dome is a dome, and, in regard to hiero 
glyphical figures, in the books in my library you have 
seen many pictures of those found on this continent." 

"Still, Doctor, that would only enabb me to create 
an image which would be simil?,i. It could not be 

" No ! It could not be identical. But suppose that 
you enter the crypt ! Instantly you look about you, and 
an image c f the place is imprinted upon your brain. 
This is objectively produced. You compare it with the 
subjective image left by your dream, and you are aston 
ished at the similarity. Note the word ! You loci 7 
around you again, and again an objective image i. 
formed. Again you essay a comparison : but what hap 
pens now ? As clearly fixed upon your brain as you 
believe your dream to be, it is but a shadowy impression 


compared to those which come to you when awake. So 
your subjective image of the place is readily displaced 
by that first objective impression, and when you compare 
the second, it is with this, and not with your dream at 
all. As both are identical, you form the conclusion that 
your dream and the actuality are identical. So your 
first idea that they are similar passes, and you adopt the 
erroneous belief that they are identical. You have com 
pared two objective impressions, where you believe that 
one was the subjective image of your dream. Thus you 
are deceived into believing that a miracle has occurred. 
And thus have all miracles been accepted as such ; thus 
have all superstitions been created, through the incorrect 
appreciation of events and their causes." 

" I see what you mean, Doctor, and I recognize, now, 
how easy it is to fall into error. Few in this world have 
the analytical instinct possessed by yourself. Yet, I must 
confess, I am anxious for the test to-night. Now that 
you have warned me, I wish to see whether my first com 
parison will give me the idea that the two images are 
identical, or merely similar." 

From this speech Dr. Medjora saw that the lad was not 
entirely convinced. He concluded therefore to risk a 
test, that would definitely settle the question. 

" Leon," said he, " you are a good draughtsman. Draw 
for me a picture of any part of the hieroglyphical sculp 
ture which is most distinct in your recollection ! " 

In this the Doctor depended upon the fact that Leon 
could have but an indistinct remembrance of the place 


itself, because, from the moment of his awakening in the 
crypt, his mind had been confused by the rapid series of 
surprises presented to his eyes. The revolving lamps, 
and the glare emitted by them, would have been sufficient 
to create such shadows, that the sculptured figures would 
have been distorted, the mind itself being too much oc 
cupied for more than a very cursory glance at the walls 
of the place. Leon, however, at once began to draw, and 
within a few minutes he handed the paper to the Doc 
tor, who was pleased to find upon it a poor copy of some 
figures in Kingsbormigti s Antiquities. Thus the Doc 
tor s speculation was vindicated, because as soon as Leon 
had endeavored to draw, he copied an image in his mind, 
made by a picture which he had had time to study closely, 
yet which in his thought replaced the indistinct impres 
sion obtained in the crypt. 

"You are quite sure, Leon," asked the Doctor, " that 
this is a figure which you saw in your dream." 

" Quite sure," answered Leon, promptly, " although, of 
course, there may be some slight inaccuracy in my 
draught of it." 

The Doctor then went to the library, and returned 
with the volume of Kingsborough, in which was the 
picture which Leon had really copied. When he showed 
this to the lad, he convinced him of his original propo 
sition, that the hieroglyphical sculptures of his dream 
were but recollections of what he had seen in books. 
Thus he averted the threatening danger, and once more 
proved that, through his knowledge of psychical laws, he 
was an adept in controlling the minds of men. 


Later in the day, Leon called at the home of Mr. 
Dudley, having been sent thither by the Doctor. 

Doctor Medjora had given Leon a letter, with instruc 
tions to take it to the house, and if Mr. Dudley should 
be out, to await his return to deliver it and obtain a 
reply. In this he was actuated by a motive. He chose 
an hour when he knew certainly that the Judge would 
not be at home, though Agnes would. He wished Leon 
to be thrown into her society more often than circum 
stances had permitted heretofore. In the future, he 
intended so to arrange that the young people should 
meet more frequently. Dr. Medjora was willing to 
abide by the acts of Providence, as long as they aided 
his own designs ; when they failed to do so, then he 
considered it time to control Providence, and guide it 
to his will. 

When Leon was admitted into the reception-room at 
Judge Dudley s, he found Agnes reading. She laid 
aside her book and arose to greet him cordially. He 
explained the object of his visit, and that he would like 
to await the return of the Judge. Agnes therefore 
invited him to be seated. His great fondness for books 
led him to utili/e her reading as a starting-point for 

" I am sorry, Miss Dudley," he began, " that I have 
interrupted your reading. May I be permitted to ask 
what book you have ? " 

" Certainly ! " she replied. " I have been reading a 
novel ! " 

" Oh ! " was all that Leon said, but the tone excited 


Agnes at once, for in it she thought she detected a 
covert sneer. 

" Do you never read novels ? " she asked. 

" I have little time for anything but science. I think 
that I have read but two novels in my life." 

" May I ask what they were ? " 

" George MacDonald s Malcolm from which I named 
my dog Lossy, and a book called Ardath. I do not 
remember the name of the author." 

" Ardath, and you do not remember the name of 
the author ? She would feel quite complimented at the 
impression made upon you, I am sure. Perhaps you 
would like to refresh your memory ?" Agnes spoke with 
a tone of triumphant satisfaction, as she handed to him 
the book which she held. He took it and read on the 
title-page, " Ardath ; The Story of a Dead Self ; by 
Marie Corelli." 

"This is a coincidence, is it not, Miss Dudley," said 
Leon, returning the volume. " I suppose it was very 
stupid of me to forget the author s name, but really I 
am so much more interested in the world of science, 
that romance has little attraction for me. In the one 
we deal in facts, while the other is all fiction." 

" Is that your estimate of the relation existing between 
the two," said Agnes, with a twinkle in her eye. She 
always delighted in an argument, when she felt that she 
held the mastery of the situation, as she did now. There 
fore she entered the combat, about to begin, with a zest 
equal to the love of debate which Leon possessed. 


" You say that science deals only in facts. If you 
remember anything of Ardath, which is not probable, 
since you forget the writer, you may recall that in his 
wanderings through the city, Al-Kyris, Theos meets 
Mira-Khabur, the Professor of Positivism. The descrip 
tion of this meeting, and the conversation between the 
men is admirable, as a satire upon the claims of the 
scientists. Let me read to you one of the Professor s 
speeches. Theos has said : 

" Then the upshot of all your learning sir, is that one 
can never be quite certain of anything ? " 

" Exactly so ! " replied the pensive sage, with a grave 
shake of the head. " Judged by the very finest lines of 
metaphysical argument you cannot really be sure 
whether you behold in me a Person, or a Phantasm ! 
You think you see me, I think I see you, but after all 
it is only an impression mutually shared an impression 
which, like many another less distinct, may be entirely 
erroneous ! Ah, my dear young sir ! education is ad 
vancing at a very rapid rate, and the art of close analysis 
is reaching such a pitch of perfection, that I believe we 
shall soon be able logically to prove, not only that we 
do not acutally exist, but, moreover, that we never have 

" What have you to say to that ? " asked Agnes closing 
the book, but keeping one finger between the leaves, to 
mark the place. 

" Why," said Leon, smiling, " that it is a very clever 
paragraph, and recalls to my mind the whole scene. I 
think that, later, this same Professor of Positivism 
declares that the only thing he is positive of, is the 
un-positiveness of Positivism ! 


" Ah ! Then you do remember some of the novel. 
That is a hopeful sign for novelists, I am sure. But, 
jesting aside, you have not defended your pet hobby, 
science, from the charge brought against her ! " 

" If you wish me to take you seriously, then of course 
I must do so. What you have read, is clever, but not 
necessarily true. It is good in its place, and as used by 
the author. It typifies the character of the man, from 
whose mouth the words escape. But, in doing this, it 
shows us that he is merely the disciple of a school which 
depends for its existence upon bombast rather than 
true knowledge ; upon sophistical cloudiness of expression 
rather than upon logical arguments, based upon reason 
and fact." 

" Ah ! Now I have you back to your first statement, 
that science deals with facts. But is it not true, that by 
your logical arguments various and varying deductions 
are obtained by different students, all seeking these 
finalities, which you term facts ? Then which of them 
all is the true fact, and which is mere speculation ? " 

" I am afraid, Miss Dudley, that you have asked me a 
question which I am scarcely qualified to answer. All I 
can say is, that so long as matters are in dispute, we can 
have no knowledge of what is the truth. In speaking 
of facts, I only alluded to those proven hypotheses, 
which have been finally accepted by all scientists. Those 
are the facts of which science boasts." 

"Yes, many of them are accepted for a decade, and 
then cast aside as exploded errors. But come, I do not 


wish to argue too strongly against science. I love it too 
well. What I prefer to do, is to defend my other hobby, 
romance ; that which you called fiction. I will give 
you a paradox. I claim that there is more fact in good 
fiction, and more real fiction in accepted fact, than is 
generally credited." 

" J am afraid I do not comprehend what you mean," 
said Leon, very much puzzled. He was growing inter 
ested in this girl who talked so well. 

" Good," said Agnes. " I will gladly expound my 
doctrine. The best exponent of so called fact which I 
can cite, is the daily press. The newspapers pretend to 
relate actual events ; to tell us what really occurs. But 
let us look into the matter but a moment, and we discover 
that only on rare occasions is the reporter present when 
the thing happens, of which he is expected to write. 
Thus, he is obliged to depend upon others for his facts. 
Each person interrogated, gives him a version of the, 
affair according with his own received impressions. But 1 
occurrences impress different persons in very different 
ways. Thus Mr. Reporter, when he comes to his desk, 
finds that he must sift out his facts from a mass of error. 
He does so, and obtains an approximation of the truth. 
It would be erroneous enough if he were now to write 
what he has deduced ; but if he is at all capable, as a 
caterer to the public taste, he is compelled to serve his 
goose with a fancy sauce. He must weave an amount 
of fiction into and around his facts, so that the article 
may have some flavor. And the flavor is sweet or sour. 


nice or nasty, in accordance with the known predilections 
of the subscribers. What wonder that one who truly 
seeks for the facts in the case, endeavoring to obtain 
them by reading several accounts, finally throws all the 
newspapers away in disgust ! " 

" Bravo, Miss Dudley ! You have offered an excellent 
arraignment against the integrity of the press. But I 
am more curious than ever to hear you prove that fiction 
contains fact." 

" It must, or it is essentially inartistic. The writer 
who seeks to paint the world, the people, and the events 
of the world, as they really are, sets up in his mind, as 
a subject for copy, the sum of his observation of the 
world and the people in it. First, we will imagine that 
he weaves a plot. This is the fiction of his romance. 
If he writes out this story, adhering closely to his tale, 
calling the hero A, the heroine B, and the villain C, 
he deals in fiction only. But even here it would have no 
material attraction, unless it is conceded to be possible ; 
it need not be probable. But if it is a possible sequence 
of events, at once we see that the basis is in fact. But 
when he goes further, and calls A, Arthur, B, Beatrice, 
and C, Clarence, at once they begin to acquire the char 
acteristics of real people, or else puppets. If the latter, 
there is no value to the conception, while if the former, 
then in dealing with these creations of his mind, the 
writer must allot to each a personality, emotions, de 
meanor, and morality, which must be recognizable as 
human. He must in other words clothe his dummies 


with the semblance of reality, and for that he must turn 
to the facts of life, as he has observed them. Thus good 
fiction is really all fact. Q. E. U." 

"Your argument is certainly ingenious, and worthy of 
consideration. It is a new way to look upon fiction, 
and I am glad that you have reconciled me to the idea 
of reading novels, for I must confess that though, when 
reading Ardath, I felt guilty of neglecting more im 
portant studies, nevertheless I was very much entertained 
by the book, which contains many ideas well thought, 
and well presented. But to resume the argument, as 
to the facts of fiction, let me say this. Is it not true 
that the predominant theme with novelists is love ? And 
would you contend that love is the most important fact 
in the world ?" 

" Unquestionably it is the predominant fact, to use 
your own word. All the joy and misery, good and evil, 
is directly traceable to that one absorbing passion." 

" You speak with feeling. Pardon my asking if it is 
a predominant emotion with yourself ? " 

It is not," answered the girl, quickly and frankly. 
"Of course I understand you to mean by love, the 
feeling which exists between two persons of opposite 
sex, who are unrelated by ties of consanguinity ; or, 
where a relationship does exist, that sort of affection 
which is more than cousinly, and which leads to mar 
riage. Such an emotion is entirely foreign to my nature, 
and therefore of course does not form a predominant 
characteristic of my being. But on this you cannot base 


an argument against what I claim, because I am an ex 
ception to the rule. With the vast majority, love is un 
doubtedly the leading motive of existence." 

" Miss Dudley, if you find the study of mankind 
interesting in the form of novels, which you say record 
the impressions of the authors, then you must pardon my 
studying your character as you kindly reveal it to me. 
This must explain my further questioning. May I pro 
ceed ?" 

" Oh ! I see ! You wish to use me as the surgeon does 
the cadaver. You would dissect me, merely for the 
purposes of general study. It is hardly fair, but pro 
ceed." She laughed gayly. 

" You said," continued Leon, " that love, such as you 
have described, is foreign to your nature. Am I to 
understand that you could not form an attachment of 
that kind which leads to matrimony ? " 

" Well, all girls say that. Hut I believe I may say so, 
and be truthful. I doubt- whether any man will ever 
inspire me with that love, without which I would con 
sider marriage a sin. I do not say this idly, or upon the 
impulse of the moment. While I have never felt those 
heart-aches of which the novelists write, yet I have 
considered the subject deeply, in so far as it affects 
myself. So I say again, love is foreign to my nature." 

" It is very singular ! " said Leon, and he spoke 
almost as though soliloquizing. " I have the same feel 
ings. I have always thought that no one would ever 
love me ; but, latterly, I have come to consider the 


subject from the other stalnd-point, and now I believe as 
you do that I shall never love any woman. If I may go 
further, I would like to ask you why you have adopted 
this theory about yourself ? I will agree to explain 
myself, if you will reply." 

" With pleasure ! From childhood I have been thrown 
almost exclusively into the companionship of two excep 
tional men, my father, and Dr. Medjora. I have the 
sincerest affection for them both. I say this, for with 
out loving them I would probably never have been so 
influenced by them as I have been. While they are very 
unlike in their personalities, yet they have one character 
istic in common : a deep longing for intellectual advance 
ment. Growing up in such an environment, I have 
acquired the same predilection, so that now my one aim 
in life is knowledge. I do not see how love could aid 
me in this, while I do see how it might prove a great 
obstacle in my pathway. Household cares, and with 
them the care of a man, are not conducive to the acquire 
ment of learning. Now I will listen to you." 

" In a measure our cases are similar. I too have 
always deemed the search for knowledge the highest aim 
in life, but I did not extract that desire from my sur 
roundings, for there was no inspiration about me. What 
I have learned, prior to my companionship with Dr. 
Medjora, was rather stolen sweets, that I obtained only 
in secret. The ideas about love, however, probably did 
emanate from my environment, for while I believe that 
my adopted mother loved me, I did not discover it until 


the day on which she died. Because no one loved me, 
I believed that no one ever would. But in my later 
analysis I have come to believe, that after starving from 
the lack of affection for so many years, I have finally 
lost the responsive feeling that gives birth to the emotion. 
I think that no one can attract me to that extent nec 
essary to enkindle in my heart the emotion called 

He looked away in a wistful manner, and Agnes felt a 
slight pity for the lad who had never known the love of 
his parents. 

" Does it sadden you to think that way ? " she asked 

"You have detected that? Yes! It is very curious. 
Ordinarily I accept the idea calmly. But occasionally I 
seem to be two persons, and one, who recognizes the 
happiness possible from love, looks at the other with 
pitying sympathy, because he will never love. Then in 
a moment I am my single self again, but the momentary 
hallucination puzzles me. It is as though I had been in 
the presence of a wraith, and the name of the spectre, 
dead to me, were Love itself. It is not a pleasant 
thought, and you must pardon my telling you. Ah ! 
There comes the Judge ! " 

He bowed his adieux and went out into the hall to 
meet Judge Dudley. Agnes took up her book and 
essayed to read again, but the spectre of love which he 
had described, danced like a little red demon with forked 
tail, up and down the pages, until she put the book aside 


and went up to her room, where she threw herself on her 
lounge and lost herself in thought. 

When Leon reached his room, upon returning home, 
he was surprised to find his dog, Lossy, lying under his 
bed, growling ominously at Madame Medjora, who was 
poking at him with a broom handle. She was evidently 
disturbed at Leon s entrance, and turned upon him 

This dog of yours must not come in the house. I 
will not have it. I am mistress here, and dogs must be 
kept in the stable." 

Without waiting for a reply she hurried out of the 
room. Leon, not comprehending what was the matter, 
but realizing that his pet was unhappy, stooped to his 
knees and coaxed him from his hiding-place. He was 
much astonished to find that Lossy held a letter between 
his teeth, which, however, he yielded readily to his master. 
When Leon had taken it from him, Lossy stood in the 
middle of the floor and shook himself, as a dog does 
after swimming, until his rumpled fur stood smooth and 
bushy. In the same moment his good temper returned. 
Leon recognized the letter, as one which he had read 
that morning, but though he perused it again mechani 
cally, it did not explain to his mind the scene, of which 
he had witnessed only the end. Had he been able to 
comprehend the situation, much of what occurred later 
might have been avoided. 

What had happened was this. In the morning s mail a 
letter had come for Leon, and he had read it at the break- 


fast-table. This excited the curiosity of Madame Medjo- 
ra, because it was the first that had come to the boy since 
he had lived with them. She therefore had noted that 
he placed it in his pocket, and she studied how she 
might become possessed of it. No chance offered until 
Leon went out, to call at Judge Dudley s. Then he 
changed his coat, and he had scarcely left the house, 
before the woman entered his room and eagerly searched 
for, and found .the letter. So engrossed was she in the 
perusal of it, that she did not notice that Lossy had 
followed her from his master s apartment into her own 
boudoir, whither she had gone, before reading it. 

The letter was as follows. As a specimen of chirogra- 
phy, and an example of high grade orthography, it was 
worthy of a place in a museum. 

" mister Icon Grath, my Dare nevue have you forgot 
yore Ant Matildy I hav not hearn frum you in menny 
menny wekes an I mus say I have fretted myself most 
to deth abowt my Dare Sisters little boy leon all alone in 
this wide wide wurld A weke ago mister potter the man 
that ocshioned off the Farm wuz up to owr plase and he 
tole us how you wuz makin lots of money in York along 
of Doctor mejory. Now ef its tru that you be makin so 
much money I think it only fare to let you know how 
much yore Ant Matildy who wus always gud an kined to 
you is now in knead of help the farm is goin to rack an 
ruin sence you lef and I want you to sen me a hundred 
dollars as sune as this reaches you as I knead it dredful 
It would be better for you and for Doctor Mejory too ef 
the money is sent rite off as if not I mite tell things 1 
know wich wont be plessant Matildy Grath " 

Unfortunately for Leon s future happiness later in the 
day Madame copied this letter carefully, and also noted 


the postmark on the envelope. Otherwise the action of 
Lossy would have left her dependent upon her memory, 
to do what she had immediately decided upon. It was 
while she was reading over her copy, that Lossy came 
stealthily forward, stood upon his hind legs arid took the 
letter^ which he had seen her steal from his master s coat. 
Before she fully realized he r loss, the dog was scamper 
ing along the hall. She followed him into Leon s room, 
and used every means to get him from under the bed. 
Coaxing failed, and she tried the broomstick, which she 
was still using when Leon entered. 

But of all this the lad knew nothing. He read the 
letter again ; then tore it up and threw it into the fire, 
supposing that the matter ended there. 



DURING the next three months Madame Medjora 
waited and watched. She watched for another letter to 
Leon. She judged the writer by herself, and she de 
cided that Matilda Grath would not abandon her 
project, having once decided that she possessed knowl 
edge, by the judicious use of which she could extort 
money. She knew that Leon had no means of sending 
her such a sum, and she was sure that Doctor Medjora 
would never part with one penny under compulsion. He 
was a man who ruled others. He was never to be intimi 
dated. Yet the woman had said that it would be better 
for the Doctor too, if the demand were satisfied. How 
to construe this she could not tell. Did Matilda Grath 
know a secret which the Doctor would wish to have sup 
pressed ? Or did the threat merely mean that the Doc 
tor could be made to suffer through his affection for 
Leon ? The mention of the Doctor s name in the letter 
had a twofold effect. It incited her all the more to carry 
out her project and ferret out the secret, if one existed ; 
while on the other hand it made her hesitate to do that 
which might bring down the wrath of her husband upon 



her head. She did not openly admit it, but she feared 
him. Thus it was that she waited. Waited hoping that 
her watching might enable her to intercept the second 
letter from Matilda Grath, which she thought must in 
evitably follow, and which might give her a more definite 
clue upon which to base her action. 

But as the weeks went by and rio letter came, she grew 
restive. In this mood one day she read of the remarka 
ble capture of the true criminal, made by Mr. Barnes, in 
the Petingill case. She did not know that this detective 
was the office boy who, while in the employ of Dudley 
and Bliss, had had the temerity to shadow her husband, 
hoping to convict him of murder. Had she known, it is 
doubtful whether she would have visited him. As it was, 
she impulsively determined to engage him to unravel the 
mystery connected with Leon, and she decided to give 
him the copy of the letter which she had made, as a clue 
with which to begin. 

Thus it was that Mr. Barnes, at the height of his 
ambition, the chief of a private detective agency, was 
astonished one morning to read the name " Madame 
Emanuel Medjora," upon a card handed to him in his 
private office. He pondered awhile, and searched his 
memory to account for the fact that the name sounded 
familiar, as he muttered it aloud. In an instant he re 
called his first attempt at unravelling a great crime, and, 
with a feeling that chance was about to give him an op 
portunity to retrieve the bungling failure of that day, 
long ago, he invited the lady into his sanctum. 


Once in the presence of the detective, Madame was 
half frightened at what she had undertaken, but it was 
too late to retreat. So in hurried words she explained 
her case, gave Mr. Barnes the letter, and engaged him to 
investigate the matter. 

" Find out for me," said she, " who this Leon Grath 
really is. I will pay you well for the information. But 
understand this. I exact the utmost secrecy. You 
must not come to my house, nor write to me. When you 
wish to communicate with me, put a personal in the 
ZfmzA/saying "Come," and I will understand. Above- 
all things, promise me that whatever you discover shall 
be known only to myself ; that you will make no use of 
the knowledge except as I may direct." 

" Madame may depend upon my discretion," answered 
the detective, and with a restless doubt in her breast, 
which was to gnaw at her peace of mind for weeks to 
come, Madame Medjora returned to the home of the hus 
band whom she had promised to love, honor, and obey, 
and against whom she was now secretly plotting. 

After the first time when Dr. Medjora had taken Leon 
into the temple of ^Esculapius while asleep, and there 
hypnotized him, the two spent an hour together in the 
crypt nightly. The Doctor deciphered for his pupil the 
meaning of the hieroglyphics in the order in which he 
had studied them out for himself. His method was 
peculiar. On the second night, he revealed to Leon the 
secret approach, and took him into the buried dome 
whilst yet awake. Then before his astonishment and 


admiration for the place had subsided, and, therefore, 
while his mind was yet off guard, as it were, he suddenly 
commanded him to sleep, just as he had done on the 
Fall River steamboat, only this time he succeeded. 
With scarcely any resistance, Leon passed into a hyp 
notic trance, and while in that condition the Doctor 
began expounding to him the sculptured records of a 
forgotten knowledge. At first the tasks were brief, but 
they were increased, and more and more was accom 
plished each night as he acquired greater hypnotic con 
trol over his subject. At the end of each lesson, he 
would say to his pupil : 

" Leon, to-morrow you will remember that we have 
been here together, that I have taught you a part of the 
knowledge inscribed upon these walls ; you will forever 
retain a recollection of that knowledge which you have 
gained to-night ; but you will imagine that you have 
been with me in your normal waking condition, and you 
will forever and forever forget that I have commanded, 
you to sleep. Do you promise ? " 

" I promise ! " would be the reply, and then, to as 
sure success, he would awaken the lad and continue 
awhile his teaching, so that Leon would depart awake, 
as he had entered. Thus it was, that the Doctor s scheme 
for educating his protege was meeting with marvellous 
success, and Leon was rapidly assimilating the wisdom 
which was offered to him. Already he knew more of 
diseases and their treatment, of the science of chemis 
try and bacteriology, than many graduates of medical 


schools. In addition to what may be termed his hyp 
notic education, he was acquiring practical experience 
through his daily work in the laboratory, so that at length 
Dr. Medjora thought that he could see a promise of 
fruition for his cherished scheme. 

In one thing he was disappointed. It was his hope to 
effect a love match between Leon and Agnes, but his 
keen study of both of the young people convinced him 
that they were as indifferent to one another, after nearly 
a year s acquaintance, as they had been at first. 

Dr. Emanuel Medjora, however, was not a man to be 
thwarted, and he had long decided upon a course of action, 
whereby he might further his design, if the current of 
ordinary events did not turn the tide in his favor. Finally 
he decided to act, and in furtherance of his purpose he 
invited Judge Dudley to spend an evening with him. 

" Come promptly at eight o clock," his note had said, 
" and be prepared to remain as long as I may require. 
The business is of great moment to us both, and to those 
whom we love." 

In response to such a summons, the Judge reached 
Villa Medjora just as the clock chimed the appointed 
hour. He was conducted into the Doctor s study, which 
opened into the laboratory. When his guest was an 
nounced, Dr. Medjora rose at once to greet him. When 
the two men were seated comfortably, the Doctor opened 
the conversation at once. 

" Judge Dudley," said he, " I have, as you know, a 
young man with me, in whom I have taken the deepest 


interest, Leon Grath, my assistant and pupil. Let me 
tell you something of him." 

" With pleasure," replied the Judge. 

" You already know, that I look upon the knowledge 
which I possess as a sacred trust, which I must utilize 
for the benefit of my fellows. I have held that it is in 
cumbent upon me to transmit this knowledge to some 
one younger than myself, that he may be my successor. 
I searched for years for such a lad. The exactions were 
great. He would need extraordinary endowments. He 
should be superior to his fellows, intellectually and 
physically. I decided that I had found such a man, 
when I selected Leon." 

" I hope you have not been disappointed ?" 

" On the contrary. He has exceeded my expectations, 
though my estimate of his powers could not be far wrong, 
because I rarely make a mistake." The egotism of these 
words did not appear to effect the Judge. He was too 
well acquainted with Dr. Medjora, who continued : 

" Leon has evinced such worthiness of the trust which 
I have reposed in him, that I know he will not only be a 
capable successor to me, but he will achieve that which 
I cannot hope to accomplish within the few years which 
are left to me." 

" Come, my friend," said the Judge, " you must not 
talk as though you were nearing the end of life. You 
will be with us twenty years longer at least." 

" They will not be twenty years of usefulness, if I 
should." The Doctor spoke as though in augury of his 


own fate. He continued : " But it is not of myself that 
I desire to speak. Leon, I say, will be a wiser and a 
greater man than I. He will be beloved by his associ 
ates, and will be a blessing in the world." 

" I do not doubt it ! " said the Judge, impulsively, not 
knowing to what the words would lead him. 

" I am glad you appreciate his worth," replied the 
Doctor, quickly. " I have already taught him much, and 
I will teach him more, if I am spared, but, even without 
my assistance, the fountain of knowledge from which he 
now draws will supply him amply. One thing he needs. 
A cloud hangs over his past, because he knows not who 
were his parents. He has no name, and that thought 
hangs as a millstone about his neck, and often weighs 
him down with discouragment, as he feels that he is 
alone in the world. I intend to remedy that. , I shall 
bestow upon him my own name." 

" Your own name ? " ejaculated the Judge. 

" My own name ! I will formally adopt him, and he 
shall take my name. I wish you to aid me in the legal 
steps requisite." 

I will do so with pleasure. Medjora, you are a 
noble man. I honor you with all my heart." The 
Judge occasionally lost his usual dignified reserve, when 
his emotions were deeply touched. 

" I thank you," said the Doctor. " But, Judge, if I 
am noble in doing what I purpose, you have the chance 
to be even more so." 

What do vou mean ? " 


" Leon needs more than a name. As I have said, the 
past hangs over his heart like a pall. Even with my 
name, he will be a lonely man. He will continue 
his habits of studiousness, but he will become a recluse. 
He will shun his fellows, because of his sensitiveness 
upon one point. He will fear to intrude himself, where 
he might not be welcome. In such a life, he would be 
of little value to his fellows. The world will lose a great 
benefactor. There is but one salvation for him, from 
such a fate." 

" And that is? " 

" Marriage ! Marriage with a woman of kindred spirit. 
Marriage with a woman, possessing equal intellect, and 
capable of spurring him to ambitious deeds, at the same 
time soothing his hours of fatigue. Marriage, in short, 
with your daughter." 

" With Agnes ! " exclaimed the Judge, almost horrified, 
so great was his surprise. 

" With Agnes !" repeated the Doctor, calmly. 
Impossible ! You are mad !" ejaculated the Judge. 

" And yet, despite your protest, the marriage will 
occur," said Dr. Medjora, in tones so portentous, that 
the Judge paused and looked at him almost in fear. 
I or one instant, the cry of the public that this man was 
a wi/ard Hashed across his mind, but in the next lie 
cast it aside with scorn, and again he said peremptorily. 

" I tell you no ! It is impossible ! " 

" Nothing is impossible," said the Doctor, impressively, 
" if I have decided in my own mind that it must be. I 


have never failed in any purpose of my life, and I will 
not fail in this. Judge Dudley, listen to me. I have a 
claim upon your daughter Agnes, equal to, yea greater, 
than your own." 

" What ! " exclaimed the Judge, more amazed. He 
sank back in his chair bewildered. How could this man 
have a claim upon his child greater than his own ? It 
was an un solvable riddle to him. 

" You do not comprehend me," said the Doctor, " and 
to explain myself it will be necessary for me to speak at 
some length. Shall I do so ? " 

"You must do so ! After what you have said, I must 
hear more. Go on ! " 

" Very well. If at first I seem to speak of matters 
unconnected with the subject, bear with me and listen 
attentively. I shall be as brief as possible, and yet give 
you a thorough insight into my meaning. As you are 
well aware, men call me a wizard. Now, what is a 
wizard ? The dictionary says he is a sorcerer, and that 
a sorcerer is a magician. In olden times the magicians 
were of two kinds, evil and good, accordingly as they 
practised Black Art, or the reverse ; which only means 
that they were men endowed with knowledge not shared 
by their fellows, and that, armed with the powers thus 
acquired, they used their abilities either for evil or for 
good purposes. Thus, if in this day of civilization I 
possess any knowledge in advance of other scientists, I 
suppose that I am as truly a wizard, as were the magicians 
of the ancients." 


" Nonsense ! " 

" Not at all. I claim to have knowledge which is 
fully twenty years in advance of to-day, just as I know 
that the present generation is but slowly awakening to 
truths which were known to me twenty years ago. But 
before I speak of what I myself know, let me give you 
a summary of the advance which modern science has 
made in a specified direction. You have heard of what 
is commonly called the Germ Theory of disease ? " 

"Yes ! Certainly ! " 

" You say yes, and you add certainly, by which latter 
you mean that it was folly for me to ask you such a 
question. Yet how much do you really know of the 
great progress which has been made in mastering the 
secret causes of human disease ? You are a learned 
Judge, and yet you know comparatively little of the 
subject which is of most vital interest to mankind. I 
mean no offence, of course. I am as ignorant of the 
Law, as you are of Medicine. Let me open a window 
that you may peep in upon the scientific students busy 
with their investigations. The Germ Theory, briefly 
stated, is this. There are all around us millions of 
micro-organisms, parasites which thrive and grow T by 
feeding upon the animal world. In proportion as these 
parasities infest, and thrive upon a given individual, so 
will that individual become diseased, and it has been 
shown that in many cases a special germ will cause a 
special disease. I could deliver you a lecture, hours 
long, upon the classification, morphology, and pathogenic 


action of bacteria, but I wish at present to lead your 
mind into a different channel. Undoubtedly the most 
important question in biology is the immunity from 
disease-generating germs, which is possessed by various 

" Do you mean that some animals can resist the at 
tacks of bacteria?" asked the Judge. Anxious as he 
was to arrive at the point where his daughter s name 
would be again introduced, his natural love of knowl 
edge caused his interest to be aroused as the Doctor 

" I do," continued Dr. Medjora. " It has long been 
known that certain infectious diseases, such as typhoid 
fever, are peculiar to man, while the lower animals do 
not suffer from them ; and that, on the other hand, man 
has a natural immunity from other diseases which are 
common among the lower animals. Again, some species 
will resist diseases which become epidemic among 
others. In addition to an immunity peculiar to a whole 
race, or species, we have individual differences in sus 
ceptibility or resistance. This may be natural, or it 
may be acquired. For example, the very young are 

usually more susceptible than adults. But a difference 


will also be found among adults of a race. The ijegro 

is less susceptible to yellow fever than the white man, 
while, contrarily, small-pox seems to be peculiarly fatal 
among the dark-skinned races." 

"Have the scientists been able to account for these 
phenomena ? " 


" They theorize, and many of them are making admir 
able guesses. They account for race tolerance by the 
Darwinian theory, of the survival of the fittest. Im 
agine a susceptible population decimated by a scourge, 
and the survivors are plainly those who have evidenced 
a higher power of resistance. Their progeny should 
show a greater immunity than the original colony, and, 
after repeated attacks of the same malady, a race toler 
ance would become a characteristic." 

"That is certainly a plausible theory." 

" It is probably correct. But acquired immunity, 
possessed by an individual residing among a people who 
are susceptible, is the problem of greatest interest. The 
difference between a susceptible and an immune animal 
depends upon one fact. In the former, when the disease- 
breeding germ is introduced, it finds conditions favoring 
its multiplication, so that it makes increasing invasions 
into the tissues. The immune animal resists such multi 
plication, and possesses inherent powers of resistance 
which finally exterminates the invader. But how can 
this immunity be acquired by a given individual ? " 

" Upon the solution of that question, I would say de 
pends the future extermination of disease,"said the Judge. 

" You are right," assented the Doctor. " Ogata and 
Jashuhara have recorded some interesting experiments. 
They cultivated the bacillus of anthrax in the blood 
of an animal immune to that disease, and when they 
injected these cultures into a susceptible animal, they 
found that only a mild attack of the disease ensued, and 


that subsequently the animal was immune to further 

" Why, if that is so, it would seem that we have only 
to use the blood of immune animals, as an injection, to 
insure a person against a disease ! " 

" Behring and Kitasato experimenting in that direc 
tion, found that the blood of immune animals, injected 
into susceptible individuals, after twenty-four hours 
rendered them immune, but this would not follow with 
all diseases. In many maladies common to man, a sin 
gle attack, from which the person recovers, renders him 
safe from future epidemics. The most commonly known 
example of this is the discovery by Jenner, who gave 
the world that safeguard against small-pox, known as 
vaccination. But the most important discovery in this 
direction yet made is one which is not fully appreciated 
even by the discoverer himself. Chauveau, in 1880, as 
certained that, if he protected ewes by inoculating them 
with an attenuated virus, their lambs, when born, would 
show an acquired immunity." 

"This is incredible ! " 

" I have now related all that the modern scientists 
have recorded up to the present date, and when I tell 
you that all of this, and very much more than is at pres 
ent recognized, was known to me twenty years ago, you 
will see that my claim that I am twenty years in advance 
of my generation is well founded. I shall not enter into 
the many theories advanced to explain the phenomenon 
of acquired immunity from disease, because it would be 


unprofitable to take up such a discussion, while you are 
waiting to hear what concerns you more closely. Suffice 
it to say, that various scientists have learned that immu 
nity may be produced in a previously susceptible animal 
by the injection of various preparations. But in each 
instance, the injection is expected to produce immunity 
from only one disease. My own studies were at first in 
this direction, and I have succeeded not only in learn 
ing how to prevent each malady separately, but what is 
far better, I have discovered a method by which I can 
render an individual immune to all zymotic diseases." 

" Then, indeed, are you a wizard ! " 

" Yes, because I do that which transcends the powers 
and knowledge of my fellows ! But mark my prophecy ! 
Just so surely as the scientific investigators of to-day 
have learned what I knew twenty years ago, so will the 
investigators of the future master the secrets which now 
are known only to myself. I am a wizard, perhaps, but 
I am a modern wizard. There is nothing of the super 
natural about my methods. But now let me be more 
explicit. What Chauvau did with sheep, I have done 
with the human being." 

" What ! You have dared to make such an experi 
ment ? " 

" Dared ? Emanuel Medjora dares all things, in the 
pursuit of knowledge ! " 

The man had arisen as he warmed to his subject, and 
now, as he drew himself up erect, he towered over the 
Judge as a giant might. 


" Listen, and be convinced. I discovered a precious 
preparation, which, if injected at the proper time would, 
in my opinion, bring me the consummation of my 
dreams. A single fluid, which would produce immu 
nity from all diseases. Just after you had procured my 
acquittal, and thus saved me and my learning for the 
benefit of the world, you were kind enough to intrust me 
with the care of your wife s health." 

" I had no hesitation in doing so. I had faith in 

" The result has shown that your faith was well 
founded. At the proper time, I injected the prepara 
tion which I had formulated, into the arm of your wife." 

"You did that?" 

" I did. You will recall the fact that .from being 
feeble she began to gain strength. Periodically I re 
peated my injections, and renewed vigor coursed through 
her system." 

" You certainly worked wonders. I distinctly remem 
ber that I marvelled at the improvement which followed 
your treatment." 

" In due season you were presented with a daughter. 
A beautiful, baby girl ! " 

" My little angel Agnes ! " 

The Judge spoke softly, and with tenderness. In 
fancy he looked back to the day when the nurse brought 
him the little cherub, newly arrived, and he felt. again 
the tightening of his heart-strings which told him that 
he was a father. 


" You held the bube in your arms," said the Doctor, 
" and you, as well as all the others, recognized that it 
was an exceptional infant. But none of you guessed 
that a child had been born, who, like Chauvau s lambs, 
would be immune to all disease ! " 

" Do you really mean that you accomplished that al 
most incredible miracle ? " exclaimed the Judge, as at 
last he perceived the nature of the claim upon Agnes, 
which the Doctor was endeavoring to establish. 

"Do you doubt it? Glance back over her career. 
Remember the various climates that she has visited ; the 
many epidemics which she has passed through in safety. 
Yellow fever in Memphis, small-pox in the Indies, and 
several seasons of diphtheria at home, here in New York. 
She has been near typhoid and scarlet fever ; la grippe 
has visited us twice in epidemic form, and is carrying 
off hundreds at this very time. Can you recall a day in 
all her life, when Agnes has been ill ? No ! You cannot ! " 
The Doctor s tone was triumphant. The Judge s reply 
was low. 

" Providence has certainly blessed her with remarkable 
health," he murmured. 

"Providence?" exclaimed the Doctor, passionately. 
" No ! Not Providence, but I ! I, Emanuel Medjora, the 
Wizard ! I have blessed her with her wonderful health ! 
To me she owes it all ! I claim her ! She is as much 
mine as yours ! " 

He was grandly dramatic as he uttered these words, 
but, marvelling as he did at what he had heard, the 


Judge was not yet ready to yield. This iteration of the 
fact that he claimed Agnes, aroused the father s antago 
nism, and, in an almost equally imperious tone, he sprang 
to his feet and cried : 

" No ! She is mine ! I am her father, and she is 
mine ! All mine ! 1 deny your claim, and Wizard though 
you be, I defy you ! " 

The two men glared at each other for a moment, and 
then the Doctor spoke suddenly. 

"You defy me ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " His laugh rang 
through the chamber with a weird sound. " Agnes is 
yours ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " Again the laugh, prolonged 
and piercing. In an instant his manner changed. Grasp 
ing the Judge by the arm, he said : " Come with me ! " 
then half dragged him towards, and through the door 
that led into the laboratory. 



THE Judge offered very slight resistance as Doctor 
Medjora urged him forward, and even in the pitchy 
darkness of the laboratory he made no effort to free 
himself. He was no coward, and in defying this man 
whom so many feared, he showed that he feared no man. 

The Doctor went straight to the trap-door, and began 
to descend the stairway. His reason for having no light 
in the laboratory was, that he did not wish the Judge to 
know by what way they went down. As the trap-door 
was open, he would not suspect its existence ; all that he 
wo.uld be able to recall would be that they had descended 
a flight of stairs. Should he enter the laboratory, at 
some future time, he would be unable to discover the 
way to the crypt below. 

But it was not to the temple of ^sculapius that the 
Doctor now led his companion. He had decided not to 
divulge that secret to any other person, besides Leon. 
Mr. Barnes, it is true, had been taken into the crypt, but 
by hypnotic suggestion the Doctor had eradicated all 
recollection of that visit. You will remember that on 
the night when the Doctor had controlled Mr. Barnes 



by making him sleep, he had subsequently taken him 
through an old wine cellar. This vault still existed, 
though it had been remodelled at the time when the new 
house was built. 

It was into this secret chamber that the Doctor now 
took the Judge. Closing the door behind him, he touched 
a button, and an electric lamp illumined the apartment. 

The chamber was comfortably carpeted and furnished, 
and in all ways presented the appearance of a luxurious 
living room, except that there were no windows. On 
this night, a silk curtain, stretched across from wall to 
wall, seemed to indicate that there was something be 
yond. What that was, at once arrested the attention of 
the Judge, but he exhibited no curiosity by asking ques 
tions, preferring to await the unfolding of events as they 
might occur. 

" Now, Judge," said the Doctor, " I must ask you to 
pardon my having brought you here. I may also have 
seemed rude or brusque in manner, which you must set 
down to excitement, rather than to malicious intent. 
You understand that I would not harm my friend ? " 

" I have no fear ! " replied the Judge, coldly. 

" Be seated, please," said the Doctor, and then both 
took chairs. " Judge Dudley," continued the Doctor, 
" 1 have expressed to you my opinion that I have a claim 
upon your daughter. You have denied it. Or, rather, 
you have probably conceded in your mind that what I 
have done for Agnes creates an obligation, but you are 
not willing to admit that on that account I should have 


the privilege, of selecting her husband ? Do I state the 
facts clearly ? " 

" Sufficiently so ! Proceed ! " 

" Very well ! I have brought you to this apartment to 
demonstrate to you, first, that the obligation is greater 
than you suspect, and secondly, that your daughter s fate 
is entirely in my hands. In fact that you are powerless 
to oppose my will." 

" I have, perhaps, more determination than you credit 
me with. It will be difficult for you to swerve me from 
my purpose." 

" Those men, who have the strongest wills, are the 
ones most easily moved. You are as just, as man ever is. 
When you learn that your daughter s happiness, after 
this night, will depend entirely upon her marriage with 
Leon, you will yield." 

" I certainly would make any sacrifice for the happi 
ness of my daughter. But I must be convinced." 

"You see! Already you are amenable to reason. I 
will proceed. Judge Dudley, a while ago I told you 
something of the present theories concerning the exis 
tence of germs which affect physical life. I also ex 
plained to you, how, by using greater knowledge than 
has as yet been generally disseminated, I have succeeded 
in producing in the person of your daughter a physically 
perfect being ; one who cannot be attacked by bodily 
ailments. I will now unfold to you some theories which 
are even more in advance of the thought of to-day. It 
has long been conceded that man is a dual creature ; 


that is, there is a material and, I will say, another side, 
to every human being. What is that other side ? It is im 
material ; it is intangible but nevertheless we know that it 
exists. At death there remains everything of the physical 
body that existed a moment before. What then has de 
parted ? An instant before death, a muscle will lift a given 
weight, and a second after, long before mortification of 
the flesh could operate to disintegrate the fibres, we find 
that one tenth of that weight will suffice to tear the 
same muscle. What then is this potential power which 
has left the body ? For the purposes of the present 
argument, I shall call it the psychical side of man. The 
physical and the psychical, dwelling in harmonious 
unison, produces a living creature. This much is plain, 
and of course presents no new thought to you." 

"True, but I suppose you are leading to something 
else? " 

" Yes ! The introduction is necessary. Given then 
these two divisions of human life, and, I submit it to you, 
is it not curious that the physical has received a hundred 
times as much study as has the psychical ? With myself 
it has been different. I have studied both together, 
because I have ever found them together. I argued 
that I could never fully comprehend the one, without an 
equal knowledge of the other. So I know as much 
about the psychical side of life as I do of the physical." 

" Then you must know a great deal ! " 

" I do ! In the beginning of my career I grasped one 
truth, which seems to have escaped the majority. The 


secrets of Nature are simple. We do not discover the mys 
teries, because we think them more mysterious than they 
are. The key to the knowledge of Nature s methods is in 
her analogies. All natural laws operate on parallel lines, 
because the aim of all is the same ; evolution towards 
perfection. Thus, in studying the psychical, I had but 
to master the physical and then discover the analogy 
which exists between the two." 

" And you claim to have done this ? " 

In a great measure. Leon, before he dies, will 
achieve more than I, because he will begin where I shall 
be compelled to abandon my work. But I have accom 
plished more than any other mortal man, and that is a 
gratifying thought, to an egotist. There is but one phase 
of this subject which I wish to submit to you. I have 
explained the germ theory of disease. I will now 
announce to you the germ theory of crime." 

* The germ theory of crime ? " asked the Judge, utterly 
amazed. " Do you mean that crime is produced by 
bacteria? As a jurist, I certainly will be interested in 
your new doctrine." 

" You do not yet grasp my meaning. It is manifestly 
impossible that bacteria, which are living parasites, could 
affect the moral side of a man. I have said that the 
secret is in analogy ; the two germs, the physical and the 
psychical, are not identical. But I will start your 
thought in the right direction, when I say that all forms 
of vice and crime are diseases, as much as scarlet fever 
or small-pox. It is a curious fact that many great 


secrets which have escaped the individual have been 
recognized by the multitude. Many expressions in the 
language, which are counted as metaphorical, are truly 
exponents of unrecorded facts. One says that a girl has 
died of a broken heart, without suspecting that disap 
pointed love has been known to cause an actual heart 
rupture, demonstrable by post-mortem examination. So, 
to return to my subject, people say that an immoral man 
has a diseased imagination, without realizing that they 
state the exact condition from which he suffers." 

" Why, if such were the case, it would be improper to 
punish criminals ! " Such an idea seemed rank heresy 
to the Judge. 

" It is entirely wrong to punish criminals. We should 
however imprison them, because they are dangerous to 
the community. But their incarceration should be pre 
cisely similar to the forcible confinement of individuals 
suffering with diseases which threaten to become epi 
demic, and for very similar reasons. First, to endeavor 
to effect their cure, and second, and most important, to 
prevent the spread of the malady." 

" You mean that jails should be reformatories?" 

" Exclusively. Moreover, the length of the confinement 
should not be regulated by statute, but should depend 
upon the intensity of the attack of crime or vice, which 
has occasioned the arrest of the prisoner. He should 
be jailed until cured, just as a leper is, even though it be 
for life. However, I cannot now discuss that aspect of 
the question. I wish to more fully explain the germ 
theory of crime." 


" 1 am impatient to hear you. " In his interest in the 
subject the Judge had almost forgotten his recent feeling 
of animosity. 

" The idea then is this. Suppose that a babe could be 
born, with a perfect psychical endowment. We would 
have a being in whom all the higher virtues would pre 
dominate, while the vices would be non-existent. But 
lake such an individual and place him in an environ 
ment where he would daily be associated with vice in 
its worst form and it would be inevitable that he would 
become vicious, for crime is as contagious as small-pox. 
The germ of a physical disease is a parasite so small in 
some instances, that when placed under a microscope 
and magnified one thousand times, it then becomes 
visible as a tiny dot, which might be made by a very sharp 
pencil. The germ of crime is even more minute and 
intangible. It exists as a suggestion." 

" A suggestion ? " 

" Yes ! Suggestion is the most potent factor in the 
affairs of the world. There is never a suggestion with 
out an effect. Wherever it occurs an impression is cre 
ated. No living man is free from its influence. A 
common example which I might cite is the congregation 
of a crowd. Without knowing what he goes to see, a 
man crosses the street and swells a growing crowd merely 
because others do so. The idea is suggested, and the 
impulse becomes almost irresistible. Even if resisted, 
the temptation will be appreciated. The suggestion has 
produced an effect. To explain the specific growth of 
a crime by this means, I will remind you of the woman 


who, when leaving home, told her children not to go into 
the barn and steal any apples, but that if they did go, 
above all things not to lie about it when she should re 
turn. Of course they went, and of course they lied to her 
upon her return. She had suggested both actions to them. 
The child who sees theft for the first time, may look upon 
it with abhorrence, because home influence has suggested 
to it that stealing is wrong. But permit a daily associ 
ation with theives, and the abhorrence will pass into 
tolerance, and thence into imitation." 

" I begin to perceive your meaning, and after all it is 
only the old idea, that conscience is merely the result of 

" Precisely so ! But that very expression is but another 
example of the indefinite recognition of an important 
fact. You say my theory is old. Perhaps ! But my 
utilization of it is new. Just as there are pathogenic 
bacteria which produce disease, so there are also non- 
pathogenic bacteria which not only do not cause bodily 
affliction, but which actually are essential and conducive 
to perfect health. The one takes its sustenance by de 
stroying that which is needed by man, at the same time 
generating poisons which are deleterious, while the latter 
thrives upon that which is harmful to the human body. 
Analogously, just as there are germs, or suggestions 
which debase the morality, so also there are suggestions 
which produce the highest moral health." 

" That seems probable enough ! " 

" By the means which I have explained to you, your 


daughter was horn, immune to all diseases. You have 
heard that certain maladies, as consumption, can be trans 
mitted, and are therefore inherited. This is not true. 
But a parent who has suffered with phthisis, may 
transmit to his progeny what is termed a diminished 
vital resistance. The child is not born consumptive, but 
he is poorly equipped to contend against the germ of 
that disease. If thrown into contact with it, consumption 
will probably follow. But it is possible that as he matures 
his environment may be such, that his vital resistance 
may increase, so that the time might come when he 
would not acquire the disease, even though brought into 
contact with it. The reverse follows as a logical deduc 
tion. Agnes was born with an enormous stock of vital 
resistance, which would operate to protect her from all 
diseases. But it would have been possible for her to de 
generate as she matured. This I guarded against. By 
cultivating her companionship, and yours, T have had 
access to her at all times, and I have periodically sup 
plied her with potions containing those germs which are 
conducive to health. In a similiar way, I have cared 
for her psychical life, by advancing her moral nature ! " 
" What is that ? I do not comprehend your meaning ! " 
" I have said that no person is exempt from the influ 
ences of suggestion. But it has been demonstrated that, 
when hypnotized, an individual is singularly susceptible 
to suggestion, and many phenomena have been recorded. 
But as yet little practical use has been made of this 
knowledge. With me it has been an endless source of 


power. Especially have I used hypnotic suggestion for 
the moral advancement of your daughter ! " 

" You mean that you have hypnotized Agnes ? " The 
Judge was stunned by the announcement. 

" I began the practice when she was five years of 
age, and have continued it up to the present moment. 
By this means I have made her psychically as perfect as 
she is physically. I have inculcated in her the highest 
virtues, and I have taught her to love intellectuality 
above all things. Thus again I show you a claim that I 
have upon her. But the highest obligation is that which 
is based upon the good of the world, and the advance 
ment of science. She is now so fond of knowledge 
that she would never marry any ordinary man. There 
is but one man living, to whom she can be united, and 
be happy, and as yet she does not suspect it. That one 
is Leon. Do you not see that you must consent to 
this union ? " 

" Not yet ! I must be convinced of the truth of all 
the extraordinary things which you have told me." 

" You ask for proof ? You shall have it ! For that I 
brought you here ! Watch what you shall see, but stir 
not, however great maybe the temptation. If you make 
an effort to interfere, it would be doubly useless, first, 
because I would restrain you by physical strength, and 
second, because though you will see your daughter, you 
will be unable to make her see or hear you. Beware 
how you trifle with what you do not understand ! A 
false move on your part might mean a lifelong injury to 
Acnes. Behold ! " 


The Doctor touched a spring and the silk curtains 
Darted. The Judge started forward with a cry, but the 
Dor/cor grasped him by the arm and cried " Beware ! " 
upon which he subsided, but gazed with intense anxiety 
upon ,vhat followed. 

Behind the curtains, there appeared a sort of stage, 
which was divided in half by yet another curtain. To 
one side, Leon lay reclining on a couch, as though asleep, 
his eyes closed. On the other side, Agnes lay in similar 
posture. The Doctor spoke : 

" Agnes ! When I command you to do so, you will 
open your eyes, and awaken enough so that you may 
speak to me ! You will see me ! You will hear my 
voice ! But you will neither see nor hear any other 
person ! Awaken ! " 

Agnes slowly opened her eyes, and gazed steadily 
towards the Doctor. Otherwise, she did not move. 

You see and hear me ? " asked the Doctor. 

; Yes !" 

Do you see any other person ? " 

" No ! " 

" Agnes, I wish to question you upon a very important 
subject. Will you reply truthfully ? " 

" I will reply. Of course it will be truthfully, because 
I do not know falsehood." 

" Do you love any one, so that you would marry 
him ? " 

" I do not know what love is. I do not know what 
marriage means for me." 

The Judge breathed a sigh of relief as he heard these 


words. He thought that his daughter was safe, but even 
yet he did not comprehend the power of the man beside 

" I will now tell you what it is to love. Listen ! " 

"I will listen!" 

"In heaven s name, Medjora," cried the Judge, "go 
no further!" He grasped the Doctor s arm as he made 
the appeal, but he might as well have addressed a thing 
of stone. He was unheeded. The Doctor proceeded : 

" Somewhere in a secret corner of thy soul, as yet 
unreached, there is a spot more sensitive than all the 
rest. A single vibration penetrating there, if harmonious 
and according with thine own desires, would awaken a 
joyousness to which all other joys compare as the odor 
of the rankest weeds to the fragrance of the sweetest 
rose. A thousand, thousand dreams of happiness are 
insignificant to the thrill which courses through the 
veins when that centre of thy soul is touched by love. 
Forever and forever after, wilt thou be a different being ; 
thine old self cast behind and buried in the oblivion of 
the past, whilst thy new existence will remain incomplete, 
until coupled with that other dear one, whose glancing 
eye hath pierced and found the deepest corner of thy 
heart. But this is not all. If the first recognition of 
the existence of thy love be delirious ecstacy, by what 
name shall I nominate that joy which issues from the 
consummation of thy heart s desire, when thy love is 
perfected by a union with one that loves thee better than 
he loves himself ? This is love ! Wouldst thou not 
taste it ?" 


The girl s lips quivered, and she spoke as one enrapt 

" I would ! I would ! O give me love ! Love ! 
Sweet, sweet love ! " 

"Thy wish shall be gratified. Look towards that 
curtain ! " 

She raised herself into a sitting position, and did as 

" Now sleep until I bid thee awaken into love ! 
Sleep ! " 

The eyelids closed, and the bosom heaved gently as 
the girl slumbered. The Doctor addressed Leon. 

" Leon ! Awaken ! I have promised you that you 
shall meet your future love. She will be life and love to 
you forever ! Awaken ! " 

Leon stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at the 

" You cannot see anyone unless I tell you ! Look 
towards that curtain ! " 

Leon obeyed, and he and Agnes were gazing towards 
each other, but the silk curtain divided them. 

" Now sleep, and when you again awaken, your happi 
ness will be complete ! " 

Leon s eyes closed. The Doctor touched another 
spring, and the curtain was drawn aside. At the same 
instant a fragrant aroma filled the apartment, as though 
the sweetest incense were burning. He stood a moment 
in silence, gazing upon the two figures who looked at 
each other, but did not see. The Judge was overcome, 
so that he found it difficult to speak. He essayed to 


address the Doctor, but his tongue was heavy, and words 
were impossible. The Doctor looked towards him an 
instant, as a slight gurgling sound issued from his lips, 
and he saw the appeal in the father s eyes ; but swiftly 
he turned away and spoke : 

" Awaken ! Awaken both ! Leon and Agnes, awaken ! 
Awaken and love ! " Having reached the climax of his 
experiment, even the Doctor himself felt a twinge of 
anxiety lest he might fail. But, as the possibility flashed 
across his brain, he cast it out again and gazed the more 
intently at the scene before him. The Judge also 
watched in dread anxiety, and with waning strength. 
He hoped almost against hope that the trick would fail. 

Leon opened his eyes, and instantly rested them upon 
Agnes. No sign of recognition appeared upon his face, 
but only admiration was pictured there. The girl awak 
ened, too, and her eyes gazed upon Leon s face. In 
stantly there was a convulsive trembling, and she breathed 
heavily. Her lips parted and closed, again and again. 
It seemed as though a w r ord sought utterance, but was 
restrained by some secret emotion. Leon began to 
move towards her, his eyes fixed upon hers, and an ex 
pression of ecstatic pleasure spreading over his features. 
Slowly but surely he advanced, and, as he approached, 
Agnes tremble d more and more. 

A swift alteration in the attitude of the girl then took 
place. In one instant she became thoroughly controlled ; 
all quivering ceased. She stood erect, exhibiting to its 
fullest her marvellously attractive form. Then, with a 


bound, she sprang forward, and cast herself upon the 
breast of her dream-land lover, with a cry that went 
straight to the heart of her father. 

" Leon ! Leon ! I love you ! I love you ! " she ex 
claimed, and as the youth folded her in an enraptured 
embrace, Judge Dudley fell to the floor senseless. 



I MUST explain more fully how the scene just related 
was pre-arranged. As Dr. Medjcra told the Judge, it 
had been a common occurrence for him to hypnotize 
Agnes whenever favorable occasions presented. These 
had not been infrequent, because the girl had exhibited 
a great fondness for the study of chemistry, and there 
fore often visited the Doctor in his laboratory. Since 
the advent of Leon, this habit had been discontinued, 
or only rarely indulged, and the Doctor, appreciating the 
maidenly reserve which prompted her, had made no 

When, however, he decided that the time had arrived 
when it would be best for him to put his scheme into 
operation, he had one day invited Agnes to be present 
at some interesting experiments which he wished to show. 
Thus she had readily been enticed to the laboratory, and 
then the Doctor had hypnotized her, and subsequently 
led her to the chamber where he had arranged the 
paraphernalia for his little scene. Before this, he had 
commanded Leon to sleep, and in a similar condition 
the lad had been conveyed to the couch whereon he 
was afterward shown to the Judge. 



The Doctor had calculated to meet opposition in the 
Judge, and his hypnotic seance had been conceived with 
the double purpose of convincing him of the uselessness 
of antagonism, while at the same time he would utilize 
the opportunity to suggest the idea of love to both of 
the young people. 

Ordinarily, by which I mean with subjects having less 
individuality than these, he would have been content to 
operate upon one at a time ; but with Agnes and Leon, 
he knew that he could succeed only by acting upon both 
simultaneously, and at the moment of suggesting love, 
to present them each one to the other, in propria persona, 
rather than through the imagination. He counted upon 
personal contact so to intensify the suggestion, that it 
would not be overcome by will power exerted in the 
waking state, which would ensue. 

All had passed to his entire satisfaction, and he had 
little doubt that his experiment would succeed, but there 
was still much to do. First, he again commanded Leon 
and Agnes to sleep deeply, and then leaving them slum 
bering on their respective couches, he bore the body of 
the Judge to the floor above. Examining him closely he 
soon satisfied himself that his friend had only succumbed 
to emotional excitement, and that he would soon recover 
from his swoon. He then took him to the study and 
placed him in the chair which he had occupied earlier 
in the evening. Hastily returning to the secret chamber, 
he brought Agnes upstairs, taking her through the hall 
and down to the parlor. Here he suggested to her that, 


when she awakened, she should think she had merely 
been visiting the house, but that it was then time to re 
turn to her home. In a moment more she opened her 
eyes, and in natural tones, which showed that she was 
devoid of any suspicion of what had transpired, she 
asked if her father was ready to take her home. The 
Doctor replied that the Judge would join her in a few 
moments, and returned to the study just in time to find 
Judge Dudley rubbing his eyes and staring about him 
bewildered. At sight of the Doctor much of what had 
happened recurred to him, though he doubted whether 
he had not been dreaming. 

" Doctor Medjora," he exclaimed, " what has hap 
pened ? Tell me ! Tell me the truth ! " 

" All that is in your mind has occurred," replied the 
Doctor, calmly. " You have not been dreaming as you 
suppose, though you have been unconscious for a brief 

"And my daughter? " asked the Judge, anxiously. 

" Agnes is waiting for you to escort her home. As it 
is late, I have ordered my carriage to be at your disposal. 
It should be at the door now. Will you accept it ? " 

The quiet tone, and the commonplace words discon 
certed the Judge. He would have preferred discussing 
what was pressing heavily upon his thoughts, but after 
gazing steadily at his host for a moment he decided to 
let the matter rest for a time. Thus he demonstrated 
the truth of the Doctor s suggestion theory, for the 
language used, and the manner adopted, had been 


chosen with the intention of producing this effect. The 
Judge, however, did not entirely avoid the topic. His 
reply was : 

" Medjora, you have given me food for deep thought. 
I cannot at once decide whether you are the greatest 
charlatan, or the most advanced thinker in the world. I 
am inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. The 
other affair shall have my consideration. Good-night ! " 

" I thank you, Judge," said the Doctor, suavely, "and 
believe me that I speak with sincerest truth, when I as 
sure you that your daughter s happiness is now, as it has 
always been, the chief aim of my life. I will accom 
pany you to the carriage." 

Having seen his friends depart, the Doctor immedi 
ately sought the secret chamber again, and brought Leon 
up to the laboratory, thence taking him to his room, where 
he awakened him, and chatted with him for a few 
minutes, after which he left him to go to rest. 

During the long ride home the Judge and his daugh 
ter were both silent, each being lost in thought. The 
Judge was endeavoring to disentangle from the maze of 
his recollection a history of the night s events which 
would appeal to his mind as reasonable. Had Agnes 
been asked to proclaim her thoughts she would have re 
plied that she was " thinking of nothing special." Yet 
in a dim indefinable way she was wondering- how a wo 
man could become so attached to a man, that she would 
be willing to yield her whole life and independence to 
him. She was, therefore, a little startled, when just 


before reaching home her father suddenly addressed 
her, saying : 

" Agnes, my daughter, I wish you to answer a ques 
tion. Are you particularly interested in any young man ? 
Are you in love with any one ?" 

" Why, what a question, father ! Of course not ! " She 
replied, with some asperity, the more so because she felt 
the blood mount to her face, and was annoyed at the 
idea that she was blushing. Her father did not pursue 
the subject, but leaned back in his seat, mentally relieved. 
He thought that he had received satisfactory proof 
that, whatever the Doctor might make Agnes say under 
hypnotic influence, his spells could not enthrall her dur 
ing her waking hours. The Judge was not yet convinced 
of the Doctor s suggestion theory. 

When Agnes retired to rest, as she lay in her luxurious 
bed, her head pillowed on soft down, with silken cover, 
she began to seek for an explanation of that blush in the 
carriage, which she was so glad that the darkness had 
screened from the eyes of her father. She argued to 
herself that, as she did not love any one, and never would 
or could do so, she had answered quite truthfully the 
question which had been put to her. Then why the 
blush ? She had always understood a blush to be a sign 
of guilt or shame, and she was not conscious of either. 
She did not readily read the riddle, and while yet seek 
ing to unravel it, she gently drifted away into dream-land. 
How long she wandered in this mystic realm without 
adventure worthy of recollection I know not, but at 


some hour during that night she experienced a sense of 
heavenly happiness. 

It seemed to her that she was walking along a track 
less desert. The sun beat down heavily, withering up 
the shrubbery, and drying up all the moisture in the 
land. Everything about seemed parched and dying 
except herself. She had a plentiful supply of water, and 
walked along without fatigue or suffering from the heat. 
Presently she came to a stone, upon which sat an old 
woman, who looked at her and begged for water. Agnes 
immediately took her water-bottle, and was about to 
place it to the lips of the old woman, when lo ! she ob 
served that the water had nearly all evaporated, so that 
only enough was left to slake the thirst of one person. 
At this she was surprised, having thought that there was 
a plenty, but not even for an instant did she consider 
the propriety of keeping the water for her own uses. 
Without hesitation she allowed the old woman to drink 
all, to the last drop. In a second, the woman had dis 
appeared, and in her place there was a most beautiful 
being, a fairy, as Agnes readily recognized, from the 
many descriptions which she had heard and read. The 
fairy thus addressed her : 

11 My dear, you have a kind heart, and shall be re 
warded. Presently you will leave this desert, and come 
into a garden filled with delicious flowers. Choose 
one, and the wish that enters your heart as you pluck 
it shall be gratified. But of two things I must warn 
you. The flowers are all symbolic, and your wish 


can only be appropriate to the blossom of your 
choice. Second, you can go through the garden but 
once ; you cannot retrace your steps. So be careful 
how you decide." 

As the last words were uttered, the fairy vanished, and 
Agnes walked on, hoping soon to enter the garden of 
promise. A mile farther, and the fragrance of many 
flowers was wafted towards her on a light zephyr which 
now tempered the heat of the sun. She hastened her 
steps, and very soon stood before a curiously carved 
gate made of bronze. As she approached, the gate 
opened, and admitted her, but immediately closed again 
behind her, thus proving the correctness of what the 
fairy had said. In all directions before her were rose 
bushes in bloom, but she observed that the whole ap 
peared like a h\ige floral patch-work quilt, because all of 
one kind had been planted together, so that great masses 
of each color was to be seen on every side. Just before 
her the roses were all of snowy whiteness. She moved 
along a glittering path, and admired the flowers, ever 
and anon stooping over one more exquisite than its 
neighbors, and pressing her face close against its petals, 
inhaling its sweet fragrance. When she thus stooped over 
the largest and choicest which she had yet seen, a tiny 
sprite appeared amidst the petals, and, stretching out his 
arms invitingly, addressed her in a voice which reminded 
her of a telephone. 

" Maiden fair, choose this blossom. Pluck this bloom, 
and wear it in thy bosom forever. In return thou shalt 


be the purest virgin in all the world, for these roses are 
the emblems of Chastity ! " 

But, for reply, Agnes shook her head gaily, and merely 
said : " All that you promise is mine already," and then 
passed on. 

The next were gorgeous yellow roses. They were rich 
in color and regal in form and stateliness, as on long 
stems each full-blown rose stood boldly forth above the 
bush of leaves below. Again a sprite popped out his 
head, and oped his lips : 

" Stop here, fair girl. Pluck one of these, and thereby 
gain Wealth and all that wealth implies. These are the 
symbols of gold ! " 

" I want no more of wealth," said Agnes, and again 
she refused the tempting offer. The next were roses of 
a size as great as those just left behind. There was just 
as much of fragrant beauty, too, or even more, perhaps, 
in these most glorious roses, just blushing pink. 

"Choose one of us, dear girl, and Beauty will adorn 
thy cheek forever more ! " the little sprite invited, but 
once more Agnes would not acquiesce, and so went on. 

What next appeared was somewhat puzzling. The 
bushes were filled with buds, but at first she could not 
find a single flower in full bloom. At last, however, she 
did espy just one, a rose of crimson color and luscious 
fragrance. With a strange yearning in her breast, she 
stooped, and almost would have plucked it, when, as she 
grasped the stem, a sharp pain made her desist. She 

looked at her hand and saw a drop of blood, of color 


which just matched the rose. A silvery laugh, like the 
ripple of a mountain brook, attracted her, and she looked 
up to see a little fellow, with bow and quiver, smiling at 
her from the centre of the flower. 

" Fair maiden," said the sprite, " if thou wouldst taste 
the joy of paradise, the happiness which transcends all 
other earthly pleasure, choose one of these unopened 
buds. Take it with thee to thy home, and nurse it as 
thou wouldst care for thine own heart. Tend it, nour 
ish it, and cherish it. Then, in time, it will expand and 
unfold, and from its petals you will see emerge, not a 
tiny sprite like me, but the spirit face of one such as 
thou, though of other sex, who will arouse within thy 
breast that endless ecstacy which men call Love. For 
these deep red roses are the emblems of Love ! " 

Without hesitation Agnes plucked the largest bud 
within her reach, unmindful of the pricking thorns 
which pierced her flesh, and then hurried on, passing 
the roses of Wisdom, and many other flowers of great 
attractiveness. And as she ran the wish that surged up 
in her soul was that the words of the sprite might prove 
true, and that she might see that face : the face of him 
who was born to be her master ; the one for whom she 
would slave, and be happy in her slavery. 

Then it seemed that she was at home again, in her own 
room, and that the cherished bud was in her most beau 
tiful vase. She thought that she supplied fresh water 
placed the vase where the sun would kiss the bud for 
one full hour every day and in every way did all that she 


could devise to hasten its maturing. At last one morn 
ing, a tiny bit of color gladdened her eyes as the first 
tips of the petals burst from their sheath and pushed 
themselves out into the great world. From that hour, as 
the bud slowly unfolded, she felt within her heart a sym 
pathetic feeling which was a pleasure and yet was pain 
ful too. It seemed as though the fate of the flower was 
interlaced with her own so tightly, that if it should die, 
why then no longer would she wish to live. And so she 
waited and watched and tended the blooming rose with 
anxious patience, awaiting that hoped-for day when the 
promise of the fairy, and the sprite, would be fulfilled. 
But the days went by, and at last the rose began to fade, 
and as the petals dropped away one by one, she felt an 
answering throb as she thought that her hope would die. 
At length, when half of the rose lay a shower of dead 
petals on the table around the vase, it seemed as though 
she could no longer endure the suspense. She became 
desperate, and determined to end it all by destroying the 
rose which had caused her such sweet hope, and such 
bitter disappointment. She grasped the flower and took 
it from the vase, but, as she essayed to crush it, her soul 
was filled with remorse and she hesitated. She gazed at 
it for a time, as tears filled her eyes, and finally with a 
sob of pain she began to dismember the bloom, plucking 
the petals one by one and throwing them idly in her 
lap. At last, only a half dozen remained about the 
heart of the flower, when in an instant she was amazed 
and overjoyed to see a face slowly emerge from amidst 


the stamens. At the same moment an overpowering 
fragrance welled up and enthralled her senses, so that 
she almost sunk into .unconsciousness. Then, as she 
knew that her hope was realized, that the fairy s promise 
was fulfilled, and that Love was within her grasp, she 
leaned forward eagerly, to scan the feature of the face 
before her. It was but a miniature, but after a very brief 
scrutiny she readily recognized it, and knew that it was 
Leon s. With a cry of surprise she awakened, while all 
the details of the dream were yet fresh within her mind. 

As the morning sun shed a ray across the features of 
Agnes Dudley, now freed from the bondage of sleep, it 
illumined a puzzled countenance. Agnes could not quite 
understand the feelings which swayed her heart. The 
sense of gladness was new, as was also a dread anxiety 
which rose up, and almost suffocated her as she thought, 
" It is only a dream ! " 

She had dreamed of love, and she had coupled Leon 
with that idea in some way, but why should it disturb 
her to find that it was but a dream ? Surely she could 
not be in love with Leon ? Of course not ! The very 
thought was preposterous, even coming to her as it had, 
while she was asleep. Springing out of bed she was as 
tonished to find that it was already nine o clock, for 
usually she was an early riser. She began dressing hur 
riedly, and rang for her maid. When the girl came she 
brought with her a beautiful bunch of red rosebuds, 
half blown. Instantly Agnes was reminded of her 
dream, but when she noted that a card was attached, 


and read upon it the words, " With the compliments of 
Leon," she felt a blush creep over her face, neck, and 
shoulders, which made her for the first time in her life 
feel ashamed. She was ashamed because she thought 
that the maid might observe and understand her con 
fusion, and she was very angry with herself to find that 
so simple a gift should so disturb her. She sent the 
maid away that she might once more be alone. Then 
she read the card again, and noted the signature more 
closely. Why should he sign only his first name ? That 
was a privilege accorded only to very close friendship. 
It seemed presumptuous, that the first note received by 
her from this young man should be so signed. She cer 
tainly would show him that she resented what he had 
done. Indeed she would ! Then, with an impulse which 
she did ribt analyze, she crushed the buds to her lips and 
kissed them rapturously. In another moment she real 
ized what she was doing, and again a blush colored her 
fair skin, and as she observed it in her mirror, she ex 
claimed, half aloud : 

" A red blush, the symbolic color of love ! " She 
paused, retreating before her own thought. But there 
was no repressing it. " Do I love him ? " She did not 
reply to this aloud, but the blush deepened so that she 
turned away from the glass, that she might hide the 
evidence of her own secret from herself. 

If the Judge could have guessed what was passing 
through the mind of his daughter, he might have more 
fully respected the suggestion theory which Doctor Med- 


jora had propounded to him. As it was, a night s sleep, 
and an hour s consideration of the matter on the follow 
ing day, enabled him to conclude that there was nothing 

] about which he need disturb himself. He had come to 
admit, however, that assuredly Agnes was a wonderfully 

healthy and intellectual girl, and he was willing to ac 
cord some credit therefor to her association with his 
friend, the Doctor. Feeling consequently indebted to 
Dr. Medjora, he hastened to write to him that he would 
immediately take the steps necessary for his legal adop 
tion of Leon, and for giving the lad the name Medjora. 
The receipt of this letter gratified the Doctor very much, 
and for the rest of the day he was in high spirits. 



WITH Leon, the Doctor s suggestion had worked dif 
ferently, though none the less potently, despite the fact 
that the lad himself did not detect the symptoms, as did 
the girl, i think a woman s instincts are more attuned 
to the influences of the softer passions than are a man s. 
Certainly it has been often observed that she will recog 
nize evidences of love, which man passes by unnoted 
and unheeded. If a girl is quicker to discover that she 
is loved, she also admits sooner that she is in love, 
though the admission be made only to herself. Thus, 
as we have seen, the Doctor s charm operated upon 

When Leon awoke that same morning, it was a sudden 
awakening from dreamless sleep. He recalled nothing 
of what had occurred during the previous night, nor 
had he even a suspicion that Agnes had been in his 
thoughts at all. Nevertheless he dressed himself with 
feverish haste, and, contrary to his usual custom, he left 
the house and went " for a walk," or so he explained his 
action to himself. Yet very soon he had reached the 
nearest station of the Suburban Elevated railroad, and 



was rapidly borne towards the city. During this trip he 
thought that he was going to town to obtain some 
chemicals which he needed in the laboratory, but, as 
there was no immediate necessity for them, he might 
have delayed their purchase for several days. The 
truth was he was answering a scarcely recognized inward 
restlessness, which demanded action of some sort. The 
cause of this change from his normal habit was that 
" something was the matter " with him, as he afterwards 
expressed it. But at the time he did not seek an expla 
nation of his mood. He did procure the chemicals, but 
having done so, instead of returning home, he walked 
aimlessly for several blocks, until he stopped, seemingly 
without purpose, before a florist s shop. In an instant 
he had formulated a design, " on the spur of the moment " 
he told himself, though it was but the outcome of the 
secret agency which controlled his whole conduct that 
day. He went in and purchased some rose-buds, select 
ing red ones, and he wrote the card which Agnes found 
upon them. When he reached the signature he quickly 
scribbled " Leon," and then he paused. The thought 
within his mind was, " I have no other name." Therefore 
he did not continue. Thus it is evident that the single 
signature was not a familiarity, either intended or implied, 
but a response to that feeling, ever within his conscious 
ness, that he had no right to call himself " Grath " ! 
Upon this point he was ever sensitive. He hastened to 
the Judge s house and left the bouquet at the door. 
Then he returned to Villa Medjora with a lighter heart, 


and, man-like, he wrongly attributed this to the ozone 
with which the morning air was laden. As yet he did 
not suspect that he had fallen in love. I wonder why 
we use the term " fallen " in this connection, as though the 
acquirement of this chief passion of the human heart 
were a descent, rather than an elevation of the soul, as 
it surely is. For one must be on a higher plane, from 
that moment when he abandons himself as the first con 
sideration of his thoughts, and begins to sacrifice his 
own desires, that he may add to the pleasures of another 
The first meeting between Agnes and Leon was one 
to which the former looked forward with anticipated 
embarrassment, while Leon scarcely thought of it at all, 
until the moment came. But when they did meet, all 
was reversed. The girl was self-possession personified, 
while Leon never before found words so tardily arriving 
to meet the demands of conversation. He went to his own 
room that night, and wondered what had come to him, 
that he should have been so disturbed in the presence of 
one for whom hitherto he had had rather a tolerance, be 
cause of her intellectuality, than any feeling of personal in 
feriority such as now occupied his thoughts. How could 
he be less than she ? Was he not a man, while she she 
was only a woman ? Only a woman ! Ah ! Therein lies 
the mysterious secret of man s undoing ; of his lifelong 
slavery, that the wants of woman shall be supplied. Yet 
women prate of women s rights, deploring the fact that 
they are less than those, who, analysis would show, are 
but their slaves. 


From this time on, the bud of love in the hearts of 
these two young people advanced steadily towards 
maturity, and, before very long, Agnes was living in a 
secret elysium of her own creation. She no longer ques 
tioned her own feelings. She freely admitted to herself 
that all her future happiness depended upon obtaining 
and enjoying Leon s love. But she had come to be very 
sure of the fulfilment of her heart s desire, since Leon s 
visits became more and more frequent, and his books and 
science apparently lost their power to allure him away 
from her side. The situation was very entertaining to 
her, who was so fond of analyzing and studying the intri 
cate problems of life ; and, to such as she, what could be 
happier occupation than probing the heart of him to 
whom she had intrusted her own ? She thought she saw 
so plainly that he loved her, that it puzzled her to tell 
why it was that as yet he himself was not aware of this 
fact. But at last the awakening came. 

One pleasant afternoon in early summer, they were 
walking down Fifth Avenue, deeply engrossed in a dis 
cussion of another of Correlli s novels. Leon read 
novels in these days. He said he did so because it was 
so pleasant to discuss them with Agnes. Besides, he 
found that even in novels there might be something to 
learn. They were speaking of that excellent work, 

"I think that it is Correlli s most finished work," 
Agnes was saying ; " but I am surprised at the similarity 
between it and Black s novel, The Princess of Thule" 


" I have not yet read that. Wherein lies the resem 
blance ?" 

" In both books we find the story divided into three 
parts. First, the young Englishman seeking surcease 
from the ennui of fashionable society by a trip into the 
wild north country. Black sends his hero to Ireland, 
and Correlli allows hers to visit Norway. Each discovers 
the daughter of a descendant of old time kings ; the 
Princess of Thule in one, and Thelma, the daughter of the 
Viking, in the other. The marriage ends the first part 
in each instance. In the second, we find the wedded 
couples in fashionable London society, and in each the 
girl finds that she is incongruous with her surroundings, 
and after bearing with it awhile, abandons the husband 
and returns to her old home, alone. The finale is the 
same in each, the husband seeking his runaway wife, and 
once more bringing her to his arms." 

" Still, Miss Agnes," the formal " Miss Dudley " of the 
earlier days had been unconsciously abandoned " what 
you have told is only a theme. Two artists may select the 
same landscape, and yet make totally different pictures." 

" So they have in this instance, and I think that Cor- 
relli s management of the subject is far in advance of 
Black s, as beautiful and as touching as that master s 
story is. The death of the old Viking transcends any 
thing in The Princess of Thule. I do not at all dis 
parage Correlli s work, only well it is hard to explain 
myself but I would be better pleased had there been 
no likeness between the two." 


" Yet I have no doubt that it is accidental, or, if there 
was any imitation, that it was made unconsciously. I 
believe that a writer may recall what he has read long 
before, and clothing the idea in his own words, may 
easily believe that it is entirely original with himself. 
There is one speech which Thelma makes, which I think 
most beautiful. You remember where the busy-body 
tries to make mischief by telling Thelma that her hus 
band has transferred his love to another? Thelma 
replies, in substance, that if her husband has ceased to 
love her, it must be her own fault, and to illustrate her 
meaning she says that one plucks a rose, attracted by its 
fragrance, but when at last it is unconsciously thrown 
away, it is not because of fickleness, but rather because 
the rose having faded, has lost its power to charm, and 
so is cast aside. I think it was very touching for 
Thelma to make such a comparison, charging herself 
with the fault of losing the love of her husband." 

" Yes ! It is very pretty and poetical, but like poetry 
in general, it is not very sensible. I think that if a 
man has enjoyed the attractions of his wife in her 
youthful days he should cherish her the more when her 
charms have begun to fade. There is quite a difference 
between a rose, which in losing its outward beauty loses 
all, and a woman who, however homely in feature, may 
still possess a soul as beautiful as ever." 

" Indeed, Miss Agnes, I indorse your sentiments. 
Such a man would be a brute. l>ut Thelma s husband 
was not of that mould. He was true to her." 


" Yes," said Agnes, smiling ; " but Thelma s charms 
had not faded, nor even begun to decline. Her simile 
was inapt as applied to herself." 

" Exactly ! It was her heart, and not her head that 
gave birth to the beautiful sentiment. But I am sure 
that her husband would have loved her, however iigly 
she might have grown. I am sure that, in his place, I 
would have done so." 

" You ? Why, Mr. Grath, I thought that you told me 
you would never love any one ? " She spoke the words 
with mischievous intent, and glanced at him archly, as 
she watched the effect of the speech. 

Leon blushed and became confused. He was at a 
loss for words, but was relieved from the necessity of 
formulating an answer, by an occurrence which threat 
ened to end in a tragedy. They were crossing a street 
at the moment, and so intent had they become upon 
their discourse, that they scarcely heard the warning; 
cries of the excited people. A maddened horse was 
running away, and as at length Leon was aroused to the 
imminence of some danger, intuitively, rather than by 
any well-defined recognition of what threatened, he gave 
one hasty glance in the direction from which the animal 
was approaching, and with a rapid movement he encir 
cled Agnes s waist with his arm, and drew her back, 
barely in time to escape from the horse and cab which 
rattled by. 

It was in this instant that Leon s awakening came 
to him. In presence of a danger which threatened to 


deprive him forever of the girl beside him, he became 
suddenly aware of the fact that she was essential to his 
future happiness. At last he knew that he loved Agnes, 
and from his silence as he took her home, and the ten 
derness of his tones at parting, Agnes instantly knew 
that he had been aroused. She already began to look 
forward to their next meeting, and to wonder whether 
he would at once unbosom himself. She meant to help 
him as much as possible. Poor fellow ! He would be 
very much abashed, she had no doubt. She would not 
be coy and tantalizing as so many girls are. She thought 
that such affectation would be beneath her. Her sense 
of justice forbade it. No ! She would be very nice to 
him. She would show no signs of uneasiness as he 
floundered about seeking words. She would wait pa 
tiently for what he would say, and then, when he had 
said the words, why, then well, then it would be time 
enough at that sweet moment to decide what to do. 
She would make him happy, at any rate. Of that she 
was determined. There should be no ambiguity about 
her reply. And in this mood the girl awaited the wooing. 
Leon did not sleep at all that night, or if he slum 
bered, it was only to dream of Agnes. A hundred times 
he saw her mangled beneath the hoofs of that runaway 
horse, and suffered agonies in consequence ; each time 
awakening with a start, to find beads of perspiration 
upon his brow. Again his vision was more pleasing, 
and in dream-land he imagined himself united to Agnes, 
and living happily ever afterward, as all proper books tell 


us that married lovers do. At last the day dawned, and 
with impatience he awaited that hour when with pro 
priety he could call upon his sweetheart. He had a 
very good excuse, for by accident, (sic ?} he had left his 
umbrella at the house the day before, and already it 
was growing cloudy. He might need it, and therefore 
of course he should go for it before it should actually 
begin to rain. 

It was scarcely noon when Leon was announced to 
Agnes, who was in her morning room, sipping a cup of 
chocolate, and wondering when he would come. And 
now he was here. She expected to find him distrait, and 
lacking in manner and speech, as she had seen him in 
the dawning of his passion. She was therefore wholly 
unprepared for what followed. If Leon had been bash 
ful in her presence when he did not comprehend the 
cause of his disconcertion, having discovered that he 
loved Agnes, hesitation vanished. There was no circum 
locution about his method at all. He was impulsive by 
nature, and, when a purpose was once well defined in his 
breast, he was impatient until he had put it into oper 
ation. Thus, without even alluding to the umbrella 
which he had ostensibly made the object of his visit, in 
accounting for it to himself, he addressed Agnes as 
follows : 

" Miss Agnes, I have scarcely slept all night because 
of what might have happened through my carelessness 

" I do not understand you," said Agnes, and indeed 


she did not. She saw, however, that he intended to 
speak very directly, and was herself disconcerted. 

" I mean the narrow escape which you had from being 
run over. I should have had my wits about me, and 
have prevented you from being in such danger." 

" You saved my life ! " she spoke softly, and drooped 
her head. 

" I do not know. But for me it would not have been 
in need of saving. But if I did save your life, I know 
that I preserved what is dearest in all the world to 
myself. No ! Let me speak, please ! I have awakened 
from a dream. I have lived in dream-land for many 
weeks, and I have not understood. I have been near 
you, and I have been happy, but in my stupidity I did 
not see that it was because of your companionship that 
I was happy. In the moment when I was in danger of 
losing you, I realized how great the loss would be. Had 
you died, I must have died too. Because because, 
Agnes, I, I, to whom the idea of love has always been 
repellent, I tell you that I love you. I love you with a 
species of worship which is enthralling. My whole 
being, my life, my soul is all yours. If you do not ac 
cept my love, then I have no further wish to live. Speak ! 
Speak to me ! I cannot wait longer. Tell me that you 
love me, or or merely nod your head, and I will go ! " 

To such wooing as this how could woman answer ? 
She had promised herself that she would not be ambig 
uous in speech, but now she learned that directness was 
demanded, and though her whole heart yearned for him, 


and she pitied the anguish which was born of his anxiety, 
she found it hard to say the words, which could not in hon 
or be retracted. So, for a moment, she was silent, and he 
misunderstood. He thought that her hesitation was born 
of sympathy for him. and that she did not speak because 
she feared to cause him pain by refusing him. He felt 
a piercing throb of agony cross his heart, and his cheek 
paled. He reeled and would have fallen, for he had not 
seated himself, but he clutched the mantel for support. 
In a moment he mastered himself sufficiently to say 
hoaisely : 

" I do not blame you ! I am a nameless vagabond, 
and have been presumptuous ! Good-bye ! " 

He turned away and was leaving the apartment swiftly, 
when his steps were arrested by a cry that thrilled him 
through with joy that was as painful as his sorrow had 

" Leon ! Leon ! I love you ! " Agnes cried, arresting 
his departure, and, as he turned and came again towards) 
her, she was standing upright, and herself made the move-* 
ment which gave him the privilege of embracing her. 

By a singular chance, while they were thus enfolded 
in love s first rapturous clasp, and therefore oblivious of 
all the world except themselves, Judge Dudley, who had 
not yet left the house, entered the room. He saw them, 
but they did not observe him. Instantly he realized that 
the Doctor s scheme had borne fruition. He hesitated 
but for a moment, and then, stepping lightly, he went out 

of the room, and departed from the house. 


How often do our joys and sorrows approach us hand 
in hand ? There comes a moment fraught with bliss ; 
the draught is at our lips, and we take one lingering sip 
of ecstasy, when on a sudden the brimming glass is 
dashed aside, and a cloud of misery enshrouds us round 
about ! Thus it happened to Leon. 

After an hour of joyous converse with Agnes, now 
" his Agnes, " he started for home. Arriving there, he 
ran lightly up the steps, as if treading on air. He was 
whistling a merry tune, as he opened the door of his 
room, and closed it again having entered. His mind 
was filled with ecstatic anticipation of what the future 
had in store for him. It did not seem possible that any 
thing could happen to disturb the sweet current of his 
thoughts. Yet a moment later he was arrested by the 
sound of a moan, an agonizing groan that filled his heart 
with dread. Again it was repeated, and immediately he 
knew that it was Lossy, who was suffering. He stooped 
and looked under the bed. There, indeed, was his fond 
animal friend, but around his mouth there was an omi 
nous mass of foam. Had the poor beast gone mad ? 
With a pang of anxiety, Leon drew the bedstead away 
from the wall, and went behind it to where Lossy had 
dragged himself. One glance into the dog s eyes turned 
up to meet, his with all the loving intelligence of his custo 
mary greeting, and Leon dismissed the idea of rabies. 
Tenderly he lifted the dog and carried him to a table 
near the window, upon which he made a bed with pillows. 
He wiped the foam from his lips, and as he did so 


Lossy gently protruded his tongue and licked his master s 
hand. He also feebly wagged his tail, and endeavored 
to rise, but his exhausted condition prevented, and with 
a groan he dropped back and lay there crying piteously 
as a child might do. Leon could not comprehend the 
trouble. " What is the matter with him ? " he asked 
himself. " He certainly was well this morning." As he 
looked, the foam began to gather again, as Lossy worked 
his lips in such a way as to eject the saliva from his 
mouth. Suddenly the explanation came to Leon. 
Aconite ! " he cried aloud. " Lossy has been poisoned ! 
By whom ? Perhaps he got into the laboratory. But 
how ? How did he get at the poison ? Oh ! If I had only 
remained at home this morning ! " 

But regrets for the past are ever impotent, and Leon 
did not waste much time deploring what had gone be 
fore. He quickly procured some charcoal, and mixing 
it with milk administered it to his dog. The foaming 
ceased, and the beast seemed more comfortable, but it 
was questionable whether any permanent benefit would 
result from the use of the antidote. 

While Leon sat watching his pet, with a growing pain 
gnawing at his heart as the conviction thrust itself upon 
him that the dog would die, his door opened and 
Madame Medjora appeared. Coming forward she looked 
at Lossy a moment, and then said : 

Do you think that the brute will die?" 

" 1 am afraid that he will," mournfully answered 


" Then why does n t he die right off," she said. " It is 
several hours since I gave him the poison." 

" You gave him the poison ? " exclaimed Leon, spring 
ing up in wrath. " You poisoned Lossy, and you dare 
to tell me of it ?" 

" I dare to tell you ? Yes ! I dare do anything that 
woman can do. I am a descendant of soldiers. The 
brute ate one of my lace handkerchiefs, and I was glad 
of the excuse to be rid of him. There ! You know the 
truth now, what will you do about it ? " 

As she uttered the words, Madame drew herself up to 
the full height of her commanding figure, and it would 
have been a daring man who would have attacked her. 
But when even feeble men are urged on by rage, they 
do deeds which braver men would hesitate to attempt. 
Utterly bereft of the restraining faculty of reason, by the 
information that his pet had been intentionally de 
stroyed, Leon sprang forward, and would have seized 
the proud neck of Madame between his powerful hands, 
in an endeavor to carry out the desire to throttle her, 
which had forced itself upon his brain, but at that very 
instant Dr. Medjora came in, and, with a single glance, 
appreciating that the lad was beside himself, he rushed 
forward and held him firmly. 

"What does this mean, Leon?" the Doctor de 

" She has poisoned Lossy ! Let me go ! I will kill 
her ! " 

Leon struggled fiercely to be free, but he found him- 


self restrained by muscles which were like steel. The 
Doctor, however, was himself tremendously moved by 
what he heard. Addressing his wife he asked : 

" Did you do that ? Does he speak the truth ? " 

" I gave the beast poison. Yes ! What of it ? " 

" Then you are a wicked fiend, Madame. Leave the 
room ! " 

" I will not ! " replied Madame, with energy. 

" Leave the room, or else I will release the boy. Go ! 
Go quickly whilst you may ! " The Doctor s tones were 
imperative, and as the woman looked into the faces of 
the two men, her courage left her, and with a muttered 
imprecation she hurried from the room. As the door 
closed after her, the Doctor released Leon, but by a 
swift movement intercepted him as he endeavored to 
escape from the apartment, and turning the key in the 
lock he took it out, and thus prevented Leon from fol 
lowing his wife. 

" Leon, my dear boy," said the Doctor, in tones ex 
pressive of the deepest sympathy, " let us see what we 
can do for Lossy. Perhaps it is not too late to save 
him, and it is better to do that, than to vent your anger 
upon a woman." 

"A woman ! Do not call her by that name. She is 
a contamination to her sex. Pardon my speaking so of 
your wife, Doctor, but but she has murdered Lossy. 
Murdered my dog, just as I called such a deed murder, 
in the little story which I showed to you that day in the 
woods. Do you remember ?" 


" Perfectly, but there can be no murder unless he dies. 
Let me see ! " 

" Yes ! Yes ! Save him ! Use your wonderful knowl 
edge to save this dumb brute, as I have seen you pluck 
infants from the brink of the grave. Save my pet, my 
kind friend ! Save him and I will do anything for you ! 
Only save my Lossy ! 

Poor Leon ! This was the one love which had been 
his for so many years. How long he had taken comfort 
and pleasure in lavishing his affection upon his dog, who 
had learned to understand and obey Iris slightest nod. 

Dr. Medjora examined Lossy carefully, and looked 
very grave. Presently he looked up, and placing one 
hand tenderly on Leon s head, he spoke softly : 

" Be brave, my lad. Many such bitter moments as this 
must he borne through life. You must meet them like 
a courageous man." 

There is no hope ? " sobbed Leon. 

" None ! He is dying now ! See how faint his respira 
tions are ? " 

With a cry of anguish Leon fell to his knees and 
gazed into his dog s eyes. He patted the head lying so 
limp and listless, and in response poor Lossy made one 
feeble effort. He gazed back into his master s face, and 
Leon ever afterward claimed that, in that last lingering 
look, he detected the living soul which was about to de 
part from his dying dog. Lossy painfully opened his 
mouth and protruded his tongue so that it barely 
touched Leon s hand in the old-time affectionate saluta- 


tion, and the soul of the dog departed for that realm 
beyond the veil. 

Leon leaned forward a moment, with his ear to the 
dog s heart, listening for an answering vibration, which 
would indicate that life yet lingered, but, receiving none, 
with a cry he fell forward to the floor and burst into 
uncontrollable sobs. 

Doctor Medjora, wise physician that he was, made no 
futile effort to restrain these tears, knowing them to be 
the best outlet for natural grief. With a glance filled 
with tender love for his prote gt, he unlocked the door 
and passed out unobserved, leaving Leon with all that 
remained of the Marquis of Lossy. 



EARLY in the morning of the same day upon which 
Leon had offered himself to Agnes, Madame Medjora, 
reading her Herald, had at last found the long-awaited 
personal, " Come," the signal which she had arranged 
with the detective. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, 
she had started forth to learn what had been discovered. 

Arrived at the agency, she was at once ushered into 
the presence of Mr. Barnes. 

" Well," said she, scarcely waiting to be seated, 
"what have you found out ?" 

" I have learned everything," said Mr. Barnes, without 
any show of feeling. 

" You have ? Well, go on. Why don t you tell me ? " 
Madame was very impatient, but the detective was in no 

" I have known what I have learned for over a week, 
Madame Medjora," said he slowly, " and during that 
time I have hesitated to send for you. Even now, when 
you are here, I am not sure that I shall be doing the 
right thing to give you any information upon this sub 
ject, without first communicating with your husband." 



" Ah ! I see," said Madame, with a sneer, " you think 
he would pay you better than I. You are mistaken. I 
have plenty of money. My own money. What is your 
price ? " 

Mr. Barnes arose from his seat, in anger, but perfectly 
calm outwardly. As deferentially as though he were ad 
dressing a queen, he bowed and said : 

" Madame, pardon me, but be kind enough to consider 
our interview at an end." 

" What do you mean ? You wish me to go ? " 
" Precisely, Madame. That is my wish." 
" But you have not yet told me ah ! I see ! I have 
made a mistake. But you will pardon me, Mr. Barnes. 
I did not know. How could 1 ? I judged you by what 
I have heard of detectives. But you are different. I 
see that now, and I ask your forgiveness. You will for 
get my stupid words, will you ? " She extended her 
hand cordially, and appeared truly regretful. Mr. 
Barnes yielded to her persuasive influence, and sat 
down again. 

" Madame Medjora, I do not fully comprehend your 
motives in this matter. That is why I hesitate to speak." 
Mr. Barnes paused a moment. " Suppose you answer 
one or two questions. Will you ? " 

" Certainly ! Ask me what you please." 
" Very well, Madame ! You married Dr. Medjora after 
his trial for murder. At that time he had little money. 
Am I right, then, in concluding that you married him 
because vou loved him ?" 


" I loved him with my whole soul ! " 

"And now, do you love him as well now?" Mr. 
Barnes scrutinized her closely, lest her words should 
belie her real feeling. But her answer was sincere. 

" I love him more now than I ever did. He is all the 
world to me ! " 

" Ah ! I see ! " Mr. Barnes communed with himself 
for a brief moment, then suddenly asked : " You have 
had no children, I believe ? " Madame grew slightly 
paler, and answered in a low tone : 

" None ! " 

" Just so ! Now then, Madame, you of course recall 
the trial. It was more than hinted at that time that the 
Doctor had a child by his first wife. Did he ever tell 
you the truth about that ? " 

" Never ! " 

" Suppose that he had done so, and had confided to 
you the fact that rumor was right, and that there was a 
child. Understand I am only supposing a case ! But 
if so, what would you have done ? " 

" I would have taken the little one, my husband s 
child, and I would have cherished it for its father s 
sake ! " 

This was a deliberate lie, but Madame uttered the 
words in tones of great sincerity. She was a very shrewd 
woman, and half-suspecting the object of the detective s 
questioning, did not hesitate to tell this falsehood in or 
der to gain her own end. She succeeded, too, for after 
a few moments more, Mr. Barnes said : 


" After all, Madame Medjora, I am merely a detective, 
and it is my business to take commissions such as you 
have intrusted to me, and work them out. I will make 
my report to you. With the letter which you gave me 
it was easy enough to make a start. I found the writer, 
Matilda Grath, and a particularly unprepossessing old 
hag she is. As is readily seen by her letter, she is igno 
rant of even common-school knowledge. She is simply 
a rough product of her surroundings, and is as untutored 
as when she was born. But she had a younger sister, 
Margaret, who was very different. This Margaret was a 
very attractive girl, and having some ambition, attended 
school until she was fairly well educated. This her elder 
sisters called " putting on airs " and " flyin in the face 
of the Lord, tryin to know more n her elders." Mar 
garet also had numerous beaux, and this was another 
source of irritation to her sisters. Finally there came a 
young man to the neighborhood, and in the language of 
the people thereabout, Margaret " set her cap " for him. 
However, he did not marry her, but after he had left the 
vicinity, Margaret went to Boston, where she remained 
several months. When she returned she brought a baby 
back with her. That baby was Leon." 

" Then he was her child ? " 

" The gossips said so, but there is no doubt in my 
mind that he was not. He was the child of the man to 
whom she had given her heart, but the mother was his 
lawful wife." 

" Then why was the baby given to Margaret Grath ? " 


" Because the mother died, and the father was tried 
for murdering her ! " 

" My God ! You mean that 

" I mean that Leon s father is your husband, Dr. 
Medjora ! " 

" Impossible ! " Madame wished to disbelieve exactly 
what she had always suspected to be the truth. 

"What I tell you is fact. I never do anything by 
halves. In the first place I had a hint of the truth from 
your own suspicions. You of course had little to go 
on, but you loved your husband, and when a jealous 
eye watches the relation between the beloved one and 
another, it will see much. I had no doubt that you 
had taken your idea from your observation of the love 
which the Doctor bestowed upon his protege. Next I 
noted the coincidence of the dates. Margaret Grath 
appeared with the child a very few months prior to the 
death of Mabel Sloane. But I obtained substantial 

" What are they ? " 

" Matilda Grath is an avaricious old woman. Her 
letter was in the nature of blackmail. She did not 
actually know that the Doctor is the boy s father, but 
she adopted that idea merely from the fact that he 
appeared upon the scene as soon as the guardian died. 
Then at the auction, it appears that there was a squab 
ble over the possession of a collie dog, and the Doctor 
settled the dispute by purchasing the animal, and pre 
senting it to Leon." 


" Oh ! He (lid that ? " Madame was inwardly incensed, 
but she quickly suppressed any expression of her emotion. 

"Yes! Old Miss Grath thought this was queer. 
Then when she subsequently learned, what she did not 
at first know, that Leon had been taken into the Doc 
tor s home, her doubts vanished. This accounts for her 
allusion to the Doctor in the letter, and the reason why 
she did not write again, was that she had no proof with 
which to substantiate her suspicions. I instituted a 
search, however, and unearthed a package of old letters 
in a worm eaten writing-desk, upon which no bid had 
been offered at the auction, so that it had been thrown 
into the waste bin in the barn. Among these I found 
two, which were from the Doctor, alluding to the boy, 
and also a photograph of himself sent at the earnest 
solicitation of Margaret Grath, as one letter explains. I 
suppose he thought that this was the least repayment he 
could make for a lifelong sacrifice." 

" You have those letters ? " asked Madame, with somej 

" I have them here," answered the detective. " Do 
you wish them ? " 
"I do!" 

"I will give them to you upon one condition, that 
you give them to your husband. They are perhaps 
more valuable to Leon, as the only evidence which 
would prove that he is the Doctor s son. But as the 
Doctor has taken him into his house, it is evident that 
he means to provide for him." 


" I will accept your terms. My husband shall know 
what you have told me, and I will give him the letters 

" With that understanding, I give them into your 

He handed a packet to Madame, who quickly placed 
it in her hand-satchel. Then she arose to depart. 
Handing him a check already signed she said : 

" Please fill in the amount of my indebtedness to 

Mr. Barnes took the check, wrote " five hundred dol 
lars" on the proper line, and handed it back to Madame 

" Will that be satisfactory ? " he asked. 

" Quite ! " she answered shortly, and left the office. 
Having accomplished her purpose she had no further 
need to assume a friendliness which she did not feel. 

All the way home this woman s heart grew more and 
more bitter because of the jealous thoughts that ran 
kled in her breast. Her love for her husband was of 
that selfish sort, that exacted all for herself. She 
wished not only to be first in his affections, but she 
desired to be second, third, and last. He must not 
love any other than herself, unless indeed it might have 
been a child of hers. Having been denied that boon, 
she could not bear to think that he had been the father 
of a child not hers. She hated that dead mother, and 
lacking opportunity to vent her spite in that direction, 
she transferred her venom to her offspring. She had 


never liked Leon, but now she despised him utterly. 
She thought of Lossy, the dog which her husband had 
bought and presented to Leon. That the Doctor 
should have been so solicitous for the lad, galled her. 
The dog had always been an object upon which she 
would vent her spite when it could not be known, but 
now she would give some open evidence of her dis 

As she entered the hallway at home, imagine her 
delight to see Lossy, poor dog, sitting down idly tear 
ing a fine lace handkerchief with his teeth. It seemed 
to her that Providence offered her an excuse for what 
she contemplated. She called the dog to her, and the 
faithful, unsuspecting creature followed her up the 
stairs to his doom. She went into the laboratory, 
knowing that both the Doctor and Leon were out, and 
readily found a bottle marked " Aconite." 

She sat upon a low bench and called Lossy. The 
confiding beast went to her, and, raising himself, planted 
his forepaws in her lap. He would have kissed her 
face, but she prevented him. Grasping his jaws in her 
powerful hands she forced them open, and poured the 
entire contents of the bottle into his mouth, holding his 
jaws apart until he was forced to swallow the liquid. 
Then she released him, and he ran to that asylum of 
refuge and safety, his master s room. Alas, that master 
was away, courting ! Thus Lossy s fate was sealed ! 

Madame awaited for Leon s return, anxious to gloat 
over his grief at the death of his pet, and it was for 


this, and to carry out another design, that she went to 
his room while he was ministering to his dog. Before 
she could fulfil her other project her husband, having 
returned home, interrupted them, having been attracted 
by the noise from Leon s room. 

When she left them Madame went to her own apartment, 
and after the death of the dog, Dr. Medjora followed 
her there, determined to discover the whole truth. As 
he entered she arose to meet him, facing him with an 
undaunted air. 

" Cora," demanded the Doctor, " how dared you com 
mit such a hideous crime ? Why did you poison that 

" Because it was my pleasure to do so ! " 

" Your pleasure to deprive a poor dumb brute of life ? 
You should be ashamed to make such a confession ! " 

" I am not the only one who might make confessions ! " 

" What do you mean ? " The Doctor instantly realized 
that a covert threat lay hidden in her words. 

" You have deceived me," cried his wife, at last giving 
full play to her anger. " For years you have lied to me. 
But at last I know everything. I know who Leon is ! " 

" Do you ?" The man was exasperatingly calm. He 
folded his arms and, gazing coldly upon the wrathful 
woman, added, "What is it that you think you know?" 

" I do not think ! I tell you I know ! You brought 
him here, calling him a poor boy whom you wished to 
befriend. That was a lie ! He is your own child ! " 

" How do you know that ? " 


" I hired a detective. He found out the whole hide 
ous truth. I have your letters for proof, so you need not 
attempt denial." 

" So you have found letters ? Are they genuine ? Let 
me see them ? " 

" 1 am not such a fool as that. I have hidden them, 
where you cannot find them. I have a better use for 
them than to give them to you ! " 

" Indeed, and may I ask what use you intend to make 
of them ? " 

"I mean to take them to Judge Dudley, and to his 
daughter Agnes ! Ha ! That idea does not please you, 
does it ? " 

" With what purpose would you show them the 
letters ? " 

" 1 know what you are aiming at ! I am not the fool 
that you think ! I have studied you, and watched you 
all these years, and I understand you very well. You 
\vish Leon and Agnes to be married ? " 

" I do ! What of it?" 

"What of it? It shall never be ! That shall be my 
vengeance for your long deception. I will prevent that 
marriage if it cost me my life ! " 

" If you dare to interfere with my plans it may cost 
you your life ! " The words were said in threatening 
tones, which at any other time would have cowed 
Madame, but now she had thrown aside her mask, and 
could not be stayed from her purpose. She answered 

haughtily, and with a tantalizing sneer : 


" No ! No ! My fine Doctor ! You cannot rid your 
self of me, as you did of Mabel Sloane ! I will not drink 
your poison ! " 

" Woman ! Beware ! " He grasped her wrists, but 
with a wrench she freed herself, and stepping back spoke 
wildly on : 

" Yes ! You can strangle me perhaps ! You are strong, 
and I am only a woman. But, before I die, I will frus 
trate your grand scheme to marry this miserable son of 
yours to an aristocrat. When I tell Judge Dudley that 
the boy is yours, he will hesitate to admit the son of a 
murderer into his family. For though he obtained your 
acquittal, and though he has been your friend for so 
many years, mark me, he will decline an alliance with one 
who was so near the gallows ! " 

She paused to note the effect of her words, a slight fear 
entering her heart, as she thought that perhaps she had 
said too much. To her amazement, her husband, without 
answering a single word, turned and left the room. 

Leon lay beside his dog so long, that at last the twi 
light closed in, and slowly the light of day faded until 
darkness surrounded him. 

He heard the strokes upon the Japanese bronze which 
summoned him to dinner, but he did not heed. It seemed 
to him that he would never care to eat again. Through 
the weary hours of the night Leon was struggling against 
suggestion. It will be remembered that, in his little story, 
he likened the killing of a dog to murder. Therefore in 
his opinion the killing of Lossy, was a murderous act ; 


and thus the thought of murder occupied his mind, 
lie considered Madame a self-confessed criminal, and, as 
such, justice demanded that she should be punished. 
But the justice of man did not include her act within 
the statutes of the criminal code. She had killed Lossy, 
but, were he to demand her punishment at the hands of 
the law, the law s representatives would laugh at him. 
But punished she should be, of that he was already 

If it seem to you that Leon over-estimated the wrong 
which had been done to him, then one of two things is 
true. Either you have never loved and been loved by a 
dog, or else you forget that the love lavished upon him 
by Lossy was all the affection which Leon had enjoyed 
for years. To the lad, his collie was his dearest friend. 
In the grief for his death he had even forgotten for the 
time his human love, Agnes. Thus it was that the idea 
of meting out justice against Madame himself, having 
once entered his mind, took a firm hold upon him. 

How should he accomplish it ? What should her pun 
ishment be? What is the usual punishment of murder? 
Death ! A chill passed over him at the thought. Yet 
was not Lossy s life as dear to him, as Madame Medjora s 
was to her ? Then why should not she lose her life in 
payment for the crime which she had committed, her 
victim being a defenceless and confiding dog ? Leon 
pictured to himself how she had accomplished the deed. 
He saw, in his mind, the poor creature going to her, and 
thus placing himself within her power. The thought 


maddened him, and setting his teeth together he mut 
tered audibly : 

" She shall die ! " 

Then his brain sought some way to compass such an 
end with safety to himself, and before long he had con 
cocted a scheme of devilish ingenuity. His knowledge 
of chemistry warned him that poisons could be traced in 
the tissues of the body after death, and that such means 
would be suicidal. 

" But suppose she were to die a natural death ? Then, 
not even suspicion would be aroused." 

That was the idea. He must convey to her the germs 
of some deadly disease from which she would be apt to 
die. Then the post-mortem would show nothing out of 
the common. There would be no way to detect how 
the disease had been contracted. The attending physi 
cian would certify that the death was due to a known 
disease, and an autopsy, if held, would substantiate his 

What disease should he choose ? Asiatic cholera ? 
He had some pure cultures in a tube in the laboratory. 
But no ! That would not serve his purpose. Cholera 
is such an uncommon and dangerous malady, that the 
Board of Health would strictly investigate a sporadic 
case. It might not be difficult to trace the fact that he 
had obtained the germs from the European laboratory 
whence they had been sent to Dr. Medjora for experi 
mental purposes. It would be safer to select some dis 
ease of frequent occurrence. He had the germs of 


diphtheria also, in the form of a pure culture. Should 
he use them ? It would not be sure that the woman 
would die, but at any rate she might, and surely she 
would suffer. Yes ! He would cause her to contract 
diphtheria. But how to proceed ? Ah ! He would use 
chloroform upon her in her natural sleep, and thus ob 
tain the opportunity for his inoculation. 

And so the idea grew, and his plans were arranged 
and perfected hour after hour, until at last midnight had 
arrived. Stealthily he left his room and went towards 
the Doctor s study. Arrived there, he was about to 
cross and enter the laboratory, when his attention was 
attracted by a line of light under the door. Some one 
was evidently in the laboratory. Leon slipped behind a 
curtain and waited. The minutes passed tediously, but 
at last the door opened, and there appeared Dr. Med- 
jora, only partly dressed, his feet slippered. In one 
hand he carried a night lamp, and in the other he held 
a bottle and a test tube. Of this Leon was certain. 
Closing the door of the laboratory, the Doctor crossed 
the study and went out into the hall. Leon stole after 
him, and saw him start up the stairs. He watched until, 
as the Doctor ascended, the light gradually disappeared^ 
Then he heard footsteps overhead, and knew that the 
Doctor had gone to his own room. Madame slept at the 
other end of the dwelling. 

" Some experiment which he is studying out," mut 
tered Leon, and proceeded with his own grim purpose. 
He went into the laboratory, and lighted a lamp which 


was on the bench. He searched the closet where the 
drugs were kept, but the chloroform bottle was missing. 
He turned to the rack where he had left the tube in 
which the diphtheria bacillus had been cultivated, but 
that also could not be found. 

In a moment, realizing that the means of committing 
the contemplated crime had in some mysterious way 
been taken from him, he awoke from the delirium of his 
thoughts, which had been brought on by his grief at the 
death of his dog, and he fervently thanked the fortune 
which had saved him from committing murder. Like a 
culprit, he returned stealthily to his room, head down, 
and there he sat at the window, looking out at the stars, 
grateful that he could do so, free from that dread secret 
which might have been his. He was saved ! 

On the next morning, however, Leon was horrified to 
hear that Madame had been suddenly taken ill, and that 
the malady was diphtheria, in its most virulent form. 
He could not understand it, but he was more than glad 
that his own conscience was free from stain. 

Two days later, Madame Medjora succumbed to the 
disease, which is often fatal when it attacks one of her 
age ; and so she went to her long account, with her sins 
upon her head. 



MR. BARNES was sitting in his office, looking listlessly 
over his morning paper, when his eye suddenly met a 
headline announcing the death of Madame Medjora. 
Instantly his interest was aroused, and he read the ac 
count with avidity until he reached the statement 
that the disease of which Madame had died was diph 
theria. Then he put his paper down upon his desk, 
slapped his hand upon it by way of emphasis, and 
ejaculated : 

" Foul play, or my name is not Barnes ! " 

He remained still for a few moments, thinking deeply. 
Then he resumed his reading. When he had reached 
the end, he started up, gave a few hurried instructions to 
his assistant, and went out. He visited the Academy of 
Medicine and obtained permission to enter the library, 
where he occupied himself for a full hour, making a few 
memoranda from various books. Next he proceeded in 
the direction of Villa Medjora, and arriving there he 
asked to see Leon Grath. 

Leon entered the reception-room in some surprise, and 
seeing Mr. Barnes he asked : 



" Is your errand of importance ? We have death in 
the house." 

" It is in connection with the death of Madame Med- 
jora that I have called to see you, Mr. Grath. I am a 
detective ! " 

The effect of this announcement was electrical. Leon 
turned deathly pale, and dropped into a seat, staring 
speechless at his visitor. Mr. Barnes also chose to re 
main silent, until at last Leon stammered forth : 

" Why do you wish to see me ? " 

" Because I believe that you can throw some light 
upon this mysterious subject." 

" Mysterious subject ? Where is the mystery ? The 
cause of Madame s death is clearly known ! " 

" You mean that she died of diphtheria. Yes, that is 
a fact. But how did she contract that disease ? Is that 
clearly known ? Can you throw any light upon that 
phase of the question ?" 

Leon controlled his agitation with great difficulty. 
He had thought, when urged on by that terrible tempta 
tion which he had resisted, that a death such as this 
would arouse no suspicion. Yet here, while the corpse 
was yet in the house, a detective was asking most horri 
bly suggestive questions. Questions which had haunted 
him by day and by night, ever since that visit to the 

" I am not a physician," at length he murmured. " 1 
am merely a student." 

" Exactly ! You are a student in the laboratory of Dr. 


Medjora. You can supply the information which I seek. 
Do you know whether, three days ago, there was a cul 
ture of the bacillus of diphtheria in the Doctor s 
laboratory ? " 

" Why do you ask ? What do you suspect ? " 

Leon was utterly unnerved, and stammered in his ut 
terance. He made a tremendous effort, in his endeavor 
to prevent his teeth from chattering, and barely suc 
ceeded. Indeed, his manner was so perturbed that for 
an instant Mr. Barnes suspected that he was guilty of 
some connection with Madame s death. A second later 
he guessed the truth, that Leon s suspicion s were identi 
cal with his own. 

" What I think," said Mr. Barnes, " is not to the point. 
My question is a simple one. Will you reply to it ? " 

" Well, yes ! We did have such a culture tube in the 

" Did have," said the shrewd detective, quickly. 
" Then it is not there now. Where is it ? " 

" I do not know. I think the Doctor took it away. 
Of course he used it in some harmless experiment, or 
or or or for making slides for the microscope." 

" You mean that you surmise this. All you know is 
that Doctor Medjora took the tube out of the labora 
tory. Am I not right? Now when did that occur? 
You saw him take it, did you not ? " 

Leon stared helplessly at his tormentor for a moment, 
great beads of perspiration standing on his brow. Then 
starting to his feet he exclaimed : 


" I will not answer your questions ! I have said too 
much ! You shall not make me talk any more," and with 
a mad rush he darted from the room, and disappeared 

Mr. Barnes made no effort to arrest his flight. In 
deed he sympathized with the lad, well comprehending 
the mental torture from which he suffered. He pon 
dered over the situation awhile, and finally appeared to 
have decided upon a plan of action. He took a card 
from his case, and wrote upon it these words : 

" Mr. Barnes, detective, would like to see Dr. Med- 
jora, concerning the coincidence of the death of his two 
wives. This matter is pressing, and delay useless." 

This he placed in an envelope which he took from a 
desk that stood open, and then he touched a gong, which 
summoned a servant. 

" Hand this to Dr. Medjora, immediately. I -will await 
a reply here." 

Ten minutes elapsed, and then the servant returned, 
and bidding Mr. Barnes follow him, led the way to the 
laboratory. Here Dr. Medjora received the detective, 
as though he were a most welcome visitor. 

" So, Mr. Barnes, " said the Doctor, opening the con 
versation, "you have attained your ambition, and are 
now a full-fledged detective. I have read something of 
your achievements, and have watched your progress with 
some interest. I congratulate you upon your success." 

" Dr. Medjora," said the detective, with much dignity, 


"the object of my visit is so serious that I cannot accept 
flattery. We will proceed to business, if you please." 

" As you choose ! Let me see ! From your card, I judge 
that you fancy that there is some suspicious circum 
stance about my late wife s death. You speak of a coin 
cidence which connects hers with that of my first wife. 
What is it?" 

" Both died of diphtheria/ said Mr. Barnes, impres 

"You are entirely mistaken, sir," said the Doctor, with 
a touch of anger. " My first wife, Mabel, died of mor 
phine, self-administered, and fatal because of other or 
ganic disease from which she suffered. She did not die 
of diphtheria." 

" A physician so testified, and signed a death certifi 
cate to that effect." 

" He did, but he was mistaken. Physicians are mortal 
as other men are, and as liable to errors of judgment. I 
repeat, Mabel died of poison." 

" Well, we will pass that for a moment. Your last 
wife died of diphtheria, and she did not contract that 
disease legitimately." 

" No ? You interest me. Pray then how did she con 
tract it ? " 

" By inoculation with the bacillus of diphtheria, Dr. 
Medjora, and you administered this new form of poison, 
which an autopsy does not disclose." 

" Quite an ingenious theory, Mr. Barnes, and I admire 
your skill in evolving it. It shows what an enterprising 


detective you are. You think that if you make a dis 
covery of this nature, you will cover yourself with glory. 
Only you are wrong. I did not do what you charge. 
Why should I wish to kill my wife ? " 

" Because she had discovered your secret ! " 

"What secret ? " 

That Leon is the child of Mabel Sloane and youn 
self ! " 

" Mabel Medjora, you mean," said the Doctor, sternly. 
"When a woman marries, she assumes her husband s 

The Doctor was apparently very jealous of the good 
name of his first wife. Mr. Barnes was amazed at this 
exhibition of feeling. The Doctor continued, as though 
soliloquizing : 

" So you are the detective that my wife engaged ? 
Strange fatality ! Very strange ! " He walked up and 
down the room a few times, and then confronted the 

" Mr. Barnes," said he, " it is evident that you and I 
must have a serious and uninterrupted conversation. 
Leon may come in here at any moment. Will you ac 
company me to a room below, where we will be safe 
from intrusion ? " 

" Certainly ! " 

Dr. Medjora raised the trap-door, which revealed the 
secret stairway, and started down. Mr. Barnes arose to 
follow him, saying : 

"You are taking me to some secret apartment. Doctor. 


I will go with you, but this trap must be left open, and I 
warn you that I am armed." 

" You need no weapons, Mr. Barnes. No danger 
will threaten you. My purpose in taking you below 
is entirely different from what you have in your 

At the foot of the stairway he turned aside from the 
crypt of /Esculapius, and led the way into the secret 
chamber in which the hypnotic suggestion of love had 
been put into operation. At this time it appeared sim 
ply as an ordinary room, the staging and curtains having 
been removed. 

" Be seated, Mr. Barnes," said the Doctor, " and listen 
to me. You are laboring under a misapprehension, or 
else you have not told me all that you know. A most 
curious suspicion has been aroused in your mind. Upon 
what facts is it based ?" 

" Perhaps it will be best for me to explain. I must 
again refer to the fact that your first wife was supposed* 
to have died of diphtheria. Your second wife falls al 
victim to the same malady. It is uncommon in adults. 
This of itself might be but a coincidence. But when I 
know that, on a given day, I revealed to your wife the 
truth about Leon, which you had carefully hidden from 
her for so many years, and when I subsequently discover 
that Madame was attacked by this disease on the very 
night following her visit to my office, suspicion was 

" As you insist upon going back to that old case, let 


me ask you how you can suppose that I induced the 
disease at that time ? " 

" Just as you have done now. By using the diphtheria 

" You forget, or you do not know, that the bacillus of 
diphtheria was not discovered until Klebs found it in 
1883, and the fact was not known until Loffler published 
it in 1884. Now my wife died in 1873." 

True, these scientists made their discoveries at the 
time which you name, but I feel certain that you had 
anticipated them. You are counted the most skilful 
man of the day, and I believe that you know more than 
has been learned by others." 

" Your compliment is a doubtful one. But I will not 
dispute with you. I will grant, for the sake of argument, 
that your suspicion is natural. You cannot proceed against 
me merely upon suspicion. At least you should not do so." 

" My suspicion is shared by another, whose mind it 
has entered by a different channel." 

"Who is this other?" 

" Your son ! " 

" What do you say ? Leon suspects that I have com 
mitted a crime ? This is terrible ! But why ? Why, in 
the name of heaven, should he harbor such a thought 
against me ? " The Doctor was unusually excited. 

" He saw you take the culture tube, containing the 
bacillus, out of the laboratory." 

" You say Leon saw me take a culture tube from the 
laboratory ? " The Doctor spoke the words separately, 


with a pause between each, as though stung by the 
thought which they conveyed. Mr. Barnes merely 
nodded assent. 

" Then the end is at hand ! " muttered the Doctor, 
softly. " All is ready for the final experiment ! " Mr. 
Barnes did not comprehend the meaning of wh^it he 
heard, but, as the Doctor walked about the room, back 
and forth, like a caged animal, seemingly oblivious of 
the fact that he was not alone, the detective thought it 
wise to observe him closely lest he might attack him 

Presently the Doctor stopped before the detective, 
and thus addressed him, in calm tones : 

" Mr. Barnes, you are shrewd and you are clever. 
You have guessed a part of the truth, and I have decided 
to tell you everything." 

" I warn you," said Mr. Barnes, quickly, " that what 
you say will be used against you." 

" I will take that risk ! " The Doctor smiled, and an 
expression akin to weariness passed over his counte- ! 
nance. " You have said that, in your belief, as early as 
1873, I knew of the bacillus of diphtheria, and that I 
inoculated my wife with it. You are right, but, never 
theless, you are mistaken when you say that she died 
from that malady. I must go further back, and tell you 
that the main source of my knowledge has been some 
very ancient hieroglyphical writings, which recorded 
what was known upon the subject by the priests of cen 
turies ago. Much that is novel to-day, was very well 


understood in those times. The germ theory of disease 
was thoroughly worked out to a point far in advance of 
what has yet been accomplished in this era. The study 
required to translate and comprehend the cabalistic and 
hieroglyphical records has been very great, and it was 
essential that I should test each step experimentally. 
About the time of Mabel s death I had discovered the 
germ of diphtheria, but I found that my experiments 
with the lower animals were very unsatisfactory, owing 
to the fact that it does not affect them and human beings 
in a precisely similar manner. I therefore risked inoc 
ulating my wife." 

;< That was a hideous thing to do," ventured Mr. 

" From your standpoint, perhaps you are right. But 
I am a unique man, occupying a unique position in the 
world. To me alone was it given to resurrect the buried 
wisdom of the past. Even if I had known that the ex 
periment might be attended by the death of my wife, 
whom I loved dearer than myself, I still would not have 
been deterred. Science transcended everything in my 
mind. Death must come to us all, and a few years 
difference in the time of its arrival is surely immaterial, 
and not to be weighed against the progress of scientific 
research. But I was confident that the disease, thus 
transmitted, would not prove fatal. That is, I was sure 
that I could effect a cure." 

" But it seems that you did not do so. The woman 


" She died from poison. I carefully attended her dur 
ing her attack of diphtheria, until an unlooked-for acci 
dent occurred. I became ill myself. It was not an 
ailment of any consequence, but I felt that it would be 
safer to call in assistance, and I placed the case in the 
hands of Dr. Fisher. He afterwards stupidly called in 
Dr. Meredith. However, despite their old fogy methods, 
she made a good rally and was on the safe side of the 
crisis, when that hypodermic case was left temptingly 
within her reach. I think now that she shammed sleep, 
in order to distract my attention from her. Morphine 
habitues are very cunning in obtaining their coveted 
drug. However that may be, I was suddenly aroused to 
the fact that there was a movement in the bed, and turn 
ing my head, I saw her pushing the needle of the syringe 
under her flesh. I sprang up and hastened to her, but 
she had made the injection, and dropped back to the 
pillows, when I reached her. She had not withdrawn 
the needle, and I was in the act of doing that, when the 
nurse entered." 

" Then you adhere to the story which you told upon 
the stand ? " 

" Certainly ! It is the truth ! " 

"But, Doctor," said Mr. Barnes, "you have not, even 
yet, proven that she did not die of diphtheria." 

" She did not ! I tell you it was the morphine that 
deprived her of life. I know it ! She died of poison ! 
There is no question about that ! " 

Thus the Doctor, though admitting that he had pro- 


duced the diphtheria, persistently asseverated that 
Mabel had not succumbed to its influence. Thus is 
explained his not advancing the theory of diphtheria as 
a cause of death, when arranging his defence, at the 
trial. To have escaped the gallows in that manner, 
would have been to burden his conscience with the 
murder of the woman whom he loved, for if she died of 
diphtheria, while he must have escaped conviction by 
the jury, he would know within his own heart that it was 
his hand that deprived her of life. Mr. Barnes replied : 

" But there is a question in this last case. Madame 
died of diphtheria, and since you admit that you can 
produce it by inoculation, what am I to believe ?" 

" I care not what you believe," said the Doctor, 
sharply, " so long as you can prove nothing." 

" Well, then, since you do not care," said the detec 
tive, nettled, " let me tell you that I believe you delib 
erately planned to kill your last wife. What is more, I 
do not doubt that a jury would adopt my views." 

" In that you are utterly mistaken. Were I consider 
ing myself alone, I would permit you to accuse me, 
feeling perfectly confident that I would be in no 

" You are a bold man ! " 

" Not at all ! Where there is no danger, there can be 
no special bravery. Why, my dear Mr. Barnes, you have 
no case at all against me. In your own mind you think 
that there is ample proof, but much of what you know 
could not be offered to a jury. You are aware of the 


fact that the diphtheria bacillus was known to me prior 
to my first wife s death, and so you trace a connection 
between the two cases. But my lawyer would merely 
show that the discovery was made ten years after Mabel 
died, and any further allusion to my first trial would be 
ruled out. I know enough about law, to know that pre 
vious crimes, or accusations of crime, cannot be cited 
unless they form a part of a system, and as your idea of 
induced diphtheria could not be substantiated, all of 
that part of your evidence would be irrelevant." 

" That would be a question for the presiding judge to 

" If he decide other than as I have stated, we would 
get a new trial on appeal. The law is specific, and the 
point is covered by endless precedents. Now then, 
obliged to confine yourself to positive evidence in the 
present case, what could you do ? You think you could 
show a motive, but a motive may exist and not be fol 
lowed by a crime, and your motive is weak besides. 
Next, you declare that I had the knowledge and the 
opportunity. I might have both, and still refrain from 
a murder. But you say that the tube containing the 
bacillus was missing from my laboratory on that very 
night, and that my son, Leon, saw me take it. I think 
that you have formed a rash conclusion on this point, 
because I doubt that Leon has told you any such thing. 
However, granting that it is true, and even that the boy 
would so testify, I am sure that he would admit under 
cross-examination that it is a common habit for me to 


take such tubes to my room to make slides for the 
microscope." The detective recalled that Leon had 
made this same explanation, and he realized that the 
Doctor had made a valuable point in his own defence. 
Dr. Medjora continued : " We would produce the slides 
which I did actually make, and, being warned by you 
so early, it would be easy for me to remain in your com 
pany until I could send for an expert to examine the 
slides, so that at the trial he would be able to testify, 
that from the condition of the balsam he could swear 
that they had been very recently made. Thus, by ad 
mitting all of the damaging parts of your evidence, and 
then explaining them so that they become consistent 
with the hypothesis of innocence, we would feel safe. 
You would still be at the very beginning of your case. 
It would devolve upon you to show that I not only made 
the slides, but that I likewise used a part of the contents 
of that tube to inoculate my wife. You would need 
to show how such an act were possible. You have no 
witness who saw me commit the deed which you charge, 
have you ? " 

" No," said Mr. Barnes, reluctantly. " But I still 
think that the circumstantial evidence is sufficient." 
Mr. Barnes felt sure that this man was guilty, and how 
ever skilfully his defence was planned he was reluctant 
to yield. 

" It is sufficient ! " said Dr. Medjora, " Not to con 
vict me at a trial by jury, but to raise a doubt of my 
innocence in the minds of those, whose good will I am 


determined not to forfeit. Therefore I will not submit 
to a trial." 

" How will you esc.ape ? I intend to arrest you ! " 

" You intend to arrest me, but your intention will not 
be carried into effect. I mean to place myself beyond 
the reach of the law." 

" You do not contemplate suicide ? " asked Mr. 
Barnes, alarmed. 

" Not at all ! There is no object in such an act, and 
good reason why I should not resort to it. You do not 
comprehend my position, and I must explain it to you, 
because I must depend upon you f6r assistance." 

" You expect assistance from me ? " Mr. Barnes was 

" Certainly, and you will grant it. I must tell you 
that for many years I have planned a scheme which is 
now on the verge of accomplishment. I wish my son 
Leon to marry Agnes Dudley. I had some difficulty to 
obtain my friend s consent, but since he has discovered 
that the young people love one another, he has acqui 
esced. Only to-day he told me this. But if he was 
reluctant, when Leon s parentage was unknown, he 
would be more so, were he to learn that T am his father." 

" But I thought that Judge Dudley was your warm 
friend ? " 

" He is ! But even strong friendships have a limita 
tion, beyond which they must not be tried. Judge Dud 
ley would strenuously argue that I am innocent of the 
old charge. His friendship for me, and his pride 


at winning his first great case, would prompt him thus. 
But were he to hear your suspicions, like you, he would 
believe that both women died similarly, and he would 
not only be apt to accept your theory of Madame s 
death, but he might also come to think that I had mur 
dered Mabel also." 

" So ! You admit there is some potency in my charge, 
after all." 

"You would fail with a jury, but you would convince 
Judge Dudley, and that would forever prevent him from 
consenting to this marriage. He would move heaven 
and earth to stop his daughter from marrying the son 
of one whom he believed to be a murderer. Thus you 
see the disaster that threatens, if you pursue your 
course. You would blast the lives of two people, who 
love one another." 

" Duty cannot consider sentiment ! " said Mr. Barnes, 
though in his heart he was already sorry that he sus 
pected, and that he had followed up his suspicion. 

" Leon now troubles himself because he does not 
known who his father is," continued the Doctor, without 
noticing what Mr. Barnes had said. " It would be far 
worse for him to know his father, and then believe him 
to be a murderer, and even that he had himself supplied 
a clue against him. It would be too horrible ! Agnes 
too would suffer. She might abandon her love, from a 
sense of duty to her father, but her heart would be 
broken, and all the bright promises of her youth 
crushed. No ! No ! It must not, it shall not be ! " 


The Doctor became excited towards the end, and Mr. 
Barnes was startled at his manner. 

" What will you do ? " he asked, feeling constrained to 
say something. 

" Place myself beyond the reach of the law, as I said 
before. But not by suicide, as you suggested. Do you 
not see that my only reason for avoiding the trial which 
would follow your accusation is, that I do not wish the 
knowledge to reach those three persons, in whose wel 
fare my whole heart is centred ? Suicide would be a 
confession of guilt. It is the hackneyed refuge of the 
detected criminal who lacks brains, and of the story 
writer, who, having made his villain an interesting charac 
ter, spares the feelings of his readers by not sending 
him to prison, or to the gallows. Nor do I contem 
plate flight, because the effect would be the same." 

" Then how do you purpose evading the law ? " Mr. 
Barnes was intensely interested, and curious to know 
the plans of this singularly resourceful man. 

The law cannot reach the insane, i believe, " said 
the Doctor, calmly. 

" You surely do not suppose that you can deceive the 
experts by shamming madness ? " asked Mr. Barnes, 
contemptuously. " We are too advanced in science, 
in these days, to be baffled long by malingerers." 

" Observe me, and yx>u will learn my purpose ! " 

Dr. Medjora went to a closet and returned with a 
hammer, a large staple, and a long chain. Mr. Barnes 
watched him closely, with no suspicion of what was to 


follow. The Doctor stopped at a point immediately 
opposite to the door, and stooping, firmly fastened the 
chain to the floor by nailing it down with the large 
staple, which was long enough to reach the beam under 
the boarding. He then stood up again. Taking a hypo 
dermic syringe from his pocket, and also a small phial, 
he carefully filled the barrel, and was about to inject 
the fluid into his arm, when Mr. Barnes ejaculated : 

"I thought that you said you would not commit 
suicide? " 

I have no such intention. In one moment I will 
explain my purpose to you. Meanwhile watch me ! " 

With dexterous skill he plunged the point into one 
of the larger veins, and discharged the fluid carefully, 
holding a finger over the wound as he withdrew the 
needle to prevent any escape. If Mr. Barnes was 
astonished by this, he was more surprised at what fol 
lowed. The Doctor stooped and picked up the ends 
of the chain, which the detective now observed termi 
nated in handcuffs. These the Doctor slipped over his 
wrists, and snapping together the spring locks, thus vir 
tually imprisoned himself. 

"What does this mean?" said Mr. Barnes. "I do 
not understand." 

" Of course not," said the Doctor. " You are accus 
tomed to deal with brainless criminals. Despite your 
boast, science is beyond you. I will explain : My 
object in thus chaining myself to the floor, is to insure 
your safety." 


" My safety ? " 

u Yes ! In less than half an hour I will be a raving 
maniac. If not restrained, I might do you an injury." 
Impossible ! " cried the detective, incredulous. 

" You will see ! I ask in exchange for my thoughtful- 
ness in preventing myself from harming you, that when 
I shall have become irresponsible, you will suggest the 
idea that I felt this attack of insanity coming on, and 
took these precautions for the sake of others. Will you 
do this ? " 

" Certainly ! If Mr. Barnes stopped, confused 

by his thoughts. 

" There is no if about this. I do not deal in chances. 
I have never yet made an error, and you will see that 
my prediction will be fulfilled. But time, precious time, 
is passing, and I have much to say before I lose my 
reason. You have heard of hydrophobia, have you not ? 
And of Pasteur s experiments ? " 

"Yes ! I have read what the newspapers have said." 

" The investigators in this field have discovered that 
the virus of this disease is located in the brain, spinal 
marrow, and nerves of infected animals. They have 
also extracted the virus, and by inoculation produced 
hydrophobia in other animals. Along similar lines I 
have extensively experimented in connection with in 
sanity. In the first place, I argued that insanity is due 
to a specific poison, a toxalbumen, and that this poison 
is a result of parasitical action. If I could isolate that 
poison, and the germ which causes it, I would under- 


stand the etiology of insanity. The discovery of an 
antidote would then be an almost assured consequence. 
To be able to cure insanity, would be a proud distinc 
tion for the discoverer of the method. I am convinced 

that I have the secret almost within my grasp. The 
preparation which I have injected into my veins is a 

formula of my own. I have named it Sanatoxine ! " 

" Sanatoxine ? " 

" Yes ! The word means poison to sanity, and my 
Sanatoxine will produce insanity, unless I have made 
some mistake, which is unlikely. Hereafter, when the 
proper antitoxine shall have been discovered, it will be a 
simple matter to cure insanity. The patient will be 
given a proper dose of Sanatoxine, to convert his mal 
ady into a curable form of the disease, and then the 
antitoxine will counteract the poison which has deprived 
him of the use of his reasoning faculties." 

" If you have made such a wonderful discovery," said 
the detective, " then you should not destroy your own 
reason, thereby depriving the world of the benefits of 
your knowledge. In this you commit a greater crime 
than that with which you stand charged ! " 

" Do I ? Suicide is a crime within the definitions of 
the Penal Code, but there has been no enactment against 
self-inflicted insanity. But I must tell you how Sana 
toxine is produced, and then explain how posterity may 
yet benefit by my discovery. One of the curable forms 
of insanity is delirium tremens. The worst of these cases 
are truly maniacal neuroses. I have seen a man die of 


such an attack, and a few minutes later I removed his 
brain and spinal marrow. These I macerated, and from 
them I extracted the virus which is the cause of the 
malady. I have inoculated the lower animals with it, 
and I have seen results which satisfy me that my deduc 
tions are correct. This cannot be absolutely known, 
however, until my Sanatoxine is tried on human beings. 
That important step in the advancement of science has 
just been made. If I become insane, my theory will 
have ample proof. For the future, Leon must complete 
my work. Among my papers he will find my views and 
formulas. It is inevitable that he will solve the riddle." 

11 But you sacrifice yourself, merely to test an experi 
ment ? You introduce into your own system a prepara 
tion abstracted from such a horrible source ! It is 
fearful to think about ! " 

" Let me see," said the Doctor, consulting his watch. 
" Ten minutes have passed, and there is scarcely a rise 
of temperature. Singular ! " He mused over the prob 
lem for a moment, and a shade of anxiety passed across 
his features, as he murmured, " What if I have made a 
mistake ? No ! No ! It is impossible ! Utterly im 
possible ! " Reassured he turned again to Mr. Barnes : 

" I mentioned awhile ago that I should need your 
assistance. You have said that I make a sacrifice. 
From the ordinary standpoint that is true, though not 
from my own. Suicide would have brought me death, 
an experience for which I yearn, with a longing based 
upon scientific curiosity, which perhaps you cannot com- 


prehend. But I am equally desirous of knowing by 
personal experience what it means to be insane. Death 
will come to me in time, therefore I need not interfere, 
but insanity might never have been my lot, had I not 
pursued the course which I have followed. To-morrow 
you will be obliged to explain what you have witnessed, 
and the favor I ask is this. Do not render my self- 
sacrifice useless, by relating to others those horrible sus 
picions, the consequences of which I am so .desirous of 
escaping. Be as merciful as the law, and keep silent 
that the innocent may not suffer. May I count upon 
you to do this ? " 

" Dr. Medjora, I cannot yet believe that you will suc 
ceed in this horrible experiment ; but if you do, of 
course I would not harm others by arousing useless sus 
picions. If you escape from the law, you need have no 
fear of what I should do." 

" I thank you from the bottom of my heart." Again 
he consulted his watch. " Twenty minutes gone, and 
still no alteration. What if I should fail ? No ! No ! 
Failure is impossible ! Mr. Barnes, another matter. 
My son is my natural heir, but I do not wish him to 
know it. Even without your story, Judge Dudley might 
hesitate to let Leon marry his daughter, if he knows 
him to be son of mine. There may be a doubt against 
me lurking in some corner of his brain, which would 
be vivified if he learned my secret. You will not 
reveal it ? " 



" I thank you. The boy will not suffer. I have left 
a will in his favor, and there is another paper making 
him the guardian of my estates should I lose my reason. 
You see I have contemplated my experiment for a long 
time, and all my preparations are complete. The Judge 
has arranged to give Lecn my name legally. So all will 
be well ! All will be well ! All my plans successful ! 
I lose my reason without complaint ! But, time is pass 
ing, and my reason remains ! A horrible thought comes 
over me ! I have made a mistake ! By all the eternal 
torments, I have made a mistake, and here I am chained 
up so that it is impossible for me to rectify the error ! 
They say I arn an egotist, yet I have so little remembered 
my own mental superiority, that I actually have thought 
that a dose of Sanatoxine which would unseat the reason 
of an ordinary man, would effect me. Fool ! Fool ! 
Fool ! How could I forget that I, Emanuel Medjora, 
the Wizard, am not as other men ? How can my reason 
be destroyed by so small a dose as that which I have 
taken ? But stop ! There may be yet one chance ! 
There may be more in the phial ! Where is it ? " His 
excitement increased as he gave vent to his thoughts 
aloud, as though Mr. Barnes were not present. Now he 
looked eagerly about, and at last saw the bottle at some 
distance from him on the floor. Mr. Barnes also saw it, 
and stepped forward to pick it up. Instantly the Doctor 
sprang towards him, grasping the hammer which had lain 
within his reach. 

"Touch that phial -it your peril !" he screamed. "I 


will brain you as mercilessly as I would a rat ! That 
phial is mine ! Its contents are mine ! Valuable only 
to me and to science ! My experiment must succeed ! 
It must ! It must ! It shall ! " 

Glaring at Mr. Barnes, who stood back awed by his 
threatening attitude, the Doctor moved towards the 
bottle, but, as he stooped to reach for it, the chains 
tightened and impeded his progress. , 

" The chains ! I had forgotten the chains ! Ha ! I 
have never forgotten before ! Perhaps my reason is 
yielding already ! No ! No ! I feel that I have full 
sway over all my faculties ! I must have that phial ! " 

He stooped to his knees, and stretched and writhed 
and twisted, in his efforts to reach the bottle. But ever 
it was just beyond his grasp. 

" I will have it ! I will ! I will ! " he muttered, grit 
ting his teeth with such force that one of them was 
broken. But he took no heed of the accident. Down 
on his back he turned, and, by a wriggling motion, soon 
lay extended at full length, his feet reaching as far as 
the chains about the wrists permitted, his arms being 
stretched backward beyond his shoulders. He could 
now reach the bottle with his feet, but it was impossible 
for him to see it, the position of his arms rendering it very 
difficult for him to hold his head and shoulders high 
enough from the floor, so that his own body would not 
impede his vision. However, he did accomplish his 
purpose, and Mr. Barnes was amazed to see him at last 
clutch the phial with his two feet. Then began a series 


of contortions which were painful to see. With the 
utmost care the Doctor drew his feet slowly up, dragging 
the phial nearer and nearer, meanwhile crying out in a 
sort of hysteria : 

" It is mine ! I will have it ! I will succeed ! The 
Wi/arcl never failed ! Never ! Never ! No ! No ! 
Never ! Never ! " 

Once, as he moved his feet, the phial slipped from 
them and rolled away again. 

" Come back ! " he shrieked. " Come back ! Stop ! 
Stop ! " he cried, as though addressing a living thing. 
It ceased to roll, and with a cry of joy he found that he 
could still reach it. Again he slowly worked it towards 
him. Inch by inch he managed the coveted phial, until 
at last he assumed another position. Springing up 
from the floor he reached backward with one foot and 
touched it. 

" Now it is mine ! Mine ! Mine ! " His voice was 
shrill, and there was a passionate tone of exultation that 
smote Mr. Barnes to the heart. It was terrible to stand 
by and see the desperate effort which this man made to 
accomplish that from which all men shrink in horror. 
Slowly the Doctor proceeded with his task, until at last 
he was able to reach the phial with his hands. Swiftly 
stooping, as a hawk descends upon its prey, he grasped 
the little bottle. 

" Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! I have it ! It is mine ! The 
Wizard never fails ! " 

His laugh of joy had scarcely died away, before he 


uttered a most terrific shriek, and threw the phial from 
him, crying : 

" Empty ! Great God ! It is empty ! " 

He stood silent and motionless for a moment. Then 
his eyes turned in the direction of Mr. Barnes, and he 
glared at him in such a way that the detective felt un 
comfortable. Suddenly he burst forth with a tirade of 
abusive language. 

" You ! You are the cause of all this ! You are the 
prying miscreant that has made all my trouble ! I will 
have your life ! I will drag you into the crypt of my 
great ancestor, and tear out your heart on the stone of 
sacrifice that still exists in there ! " 

He dashed forward with such force that the chains, 
reaching their limit suddenly, jerked him back so vio 
lently that he fell. As he did so his hand chanced to 
touch the hammer, which he had laid aside while trying 
to secure the bottle. With a shriek of joy that made 
Mr. Barnes shiver, he sprang up, holding the hammer 

" I am chained ! Chained ! But you shall not escape ! 
Take that ! " 

Swiftly he hurled the hammer, but Mr. Barnes, sus 
pecting his purpose, dropped to his knees, and the mis 
sile went harmlessly over his head. 

" Balked ! Balked ! I have failed ! But I am the 
Wizard and I will succeed ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " His 
laugh now filled the room. " You wonder how ! I am 
chained and you think that you are safe ! Ha ! Ha ! 


Ha ! You are a fool ! You do not know me ! I am 
Emanuel Medjora ! I am powerful. I will rend these 
chains, and then your life shall pay ! " 

He turned, and wrapping the chains around his two 
arms, he braced his feet against the floor, and tugged 
with all his might. 

He pulled, and swayed from side to side. He sav 
agely jerked the chains, and then again he grasped one 
with both hands, but his efforts appeared to be in vain. 
But so much power did he display, that, as his back 
was turned, Mr. Barnes decided that it would be safer 
to prepare for flight. He therefore cautiously advanced 
towards the door, and there paused, ready, however, to 
dart out on the instant should it be necessary. 

Still the Doctor tugged and jerked and rattled the 
chains, shrieking and laughing demoniacally at intervals. 
Presently, with a shout of triumph, he did burst one of 
the chains. Turning towards Mr. Barnes, he shouted : 

" You see ! I am the Wizard ! I do what I please ! 
You did not think that I could break it ! Ha ! Ha ! 
Ha ! You do not know Emanuel Medjora ! He ac 
complishes what he wills ! The will controls the muscles, 
and the mind controls the will ! But now through my 
brain a liquid fire courses that makes my mind doubly 
powerful ! I feel that I am getting stronger every mo 
ment ! In another second I will snap this last chain as 
easily as you would break a cord ! Then, then, Ha ! 
Ha ! Ha ! I 11 have your heart out ! Ha ! Ha ! 

Ha ! I have an idea ! 1 11 kill you now ! " 


He rushed forward as far as the remaining chain 
would permit, and extending the other arm, to which 
dangled the end of the chain which he had broken, he 
drew it back and then switched the dangling links 
viciously towards Mr. Barnes, narrowly missing him. 
As he saw that even now he could not reach the detec 
tive, he uttered a cry of rage, and again and again endeav 
ored to strike him with the dangling chain. But it was 
useless. Mr. Barnes was beyond his reach. Finally, 
with a cry of despair, the Doctor threw himself in a heap 
upon the floor, now weeping, now laughing, and shriek 
ing madly : 

" They say I am a Wizard ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! A 
Wizard ! I a Wizard, and I cannot kill a man ! Such 
i simple thing, and yet I cannot do it ! A Wizard ! I 
a Wizard ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " 

His Sanatoxine experiment had proven successful. 
Dr. Emanuel Medjora was a maniac ! 


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